


The Night of the Laughing Tree

by orlofthesky



Series: The Poet and the Knight [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Falling In Love, The Knight of the Laughing Tree, Tourney at Harrenhal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-19 04:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11890257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orlofthesky/pseuds/orlofthesky
Summary: When the poet met the knight he couldn't just cease to be the prince and heir as much as she couldn't just cease to be a highborn lady; but at least they could be true to themselves together, if only for a brief moment.





	1. Rhaegar I

**Author's Note:**

> My take on what happened at Harrenhal. Characters and setting are GRRM’s, mistakes are all mine. I do know how to spell knight though, thanks for asking. ;-) Somewhere inbetween the books and the show, not an AU ... yet. This is probably going to get jossed anyways, but oh well. Enthusiastic consent of everyone involved, including Elia. Updates to be expected once a week-ish. Would love to hear from you in the comments section.

“I wasn't aware that the ladies had been asked to join the search party.”

His voice had startled her; she spun around on her heel, dropping whatever it was she had been carrying. “What search party?” she blurted out, visibly perplexed. She had already started scrambling for everything that had fallen to the mossy ground before she froze to stare. “Your Grace,” she added hastily, and when she lowered her grey eyes it wasn't demure and ladylike but purely for practical reasons – she had to retrieve her things after all.

“It isn't safe to be out here on your own, my lady.”

“Well, I'm hardly _on my own_ now that you’re here, aren't I?”

Her brash attitude was certainly not something he expected from a young lady addressing the prince and heir to the throne. He didn't mind as much as he should have though, after having all the ladies in attendance simpering and swooning over him for the whole duration of the tourney he found it rather refreshing. Suppressing a smile, Rhaegar dropped to his knees next to her.

She was quick to protest, suddenly remembering her manners. “Your Grace is being very chivalrous indeed, but you really needn't trouble yourself ...”

“It's not a bother at all, my lady.”

She glanced at him nervously and continued to gather her belongings. She was behaving like a deer that had just picked up the hunters' scent, oddly enough not because the mere presence of royalty made her uneasy. Pale and skinny and dark of hair there was nothing remarkable about her but her spirited personality. Too poised to be a commoner and yet too unrefined to be an attendant to any highborn lady at the tournament she was probably a younger daughter of some minor Northern lord, judging by her strong accent and her plain attire. Curiously enough, something about her reminded him of his fiercely free-spirited little brother Viserys who didn't care about propriety and appearances and his septa's stern disapproval one iota either. Before he could further ponder upon who this queer young lady might be, he realised what it was that he had just handed over to her.

A gauntlet, well worn and badly cared for. He let out a surprised breath, quickly scanning the other objects scattered around them. A shin-protector. A dented visor. A pair of leather wrist-wraps. A wooden shield. All mis-matched. He cleared his throat awkwardly while rising to his feet again.

“You are acquainted with the mystery knight then, my lady?”

She attempted to hide the offending gauntlet by shoving it behind her back. She quickly seemed to understand the futility of her maneuver though, so she raised her chin with a defiant pout and dared to look him straight in the eye instead. “Erm … Not exactly, no.”

“You do realise that telling falsehoods to a member of the royal family is considered a crime?” Throughout all those years at court Rhaegar had schooled himself into wearing an impenetrable mask of stoicism and aloofness at all times. He was glad, for he could barely contain his amusement despite the sudden gravity of the situation. This mystery lady was intriguing and he rather enjoyed watching her blush while she was thinking.

“I'm not … I’m not _lying_ ... Your Grace.”

“But you are attempting to hide mismatched pieces of armour in the shrubbery, barely out of sight of the tourney grounds, mere minutes after the king himself called for the mystery knight to be apprehended,” he stated matter-of-factly, “You do realise that I cannot let this go unnoticed, my lady.”

She nodded, biting her quivering lip, her face suddenly devoid of the defiant liveliness that had intrigued him so just a moment ago.

“Would you care to elaborate?”

As soon as she had noticed him noticing her hands tremble she had clutched them behind her back and now she faced him standing tall. The expression she wore on her face, much paler than before, was painfully familiar, one that he recognised as his own, the princeling facing the Mad King’s inevitable ire. She was terrified, he realised, terrified but brave enough. Feeling a pang of guilt, he relented.

“My lady, it is of utmost importance that we find an explanation for these unfortunate circumstances. Whatever your acquaintance with the mystery knight, I am sure we can find a way to keep you out of trouble. I implore you to trust me on that matter, my lady. I am not your enemy.”

“But ...”

“I am not the king,” he said with a sad smile that didn’t end up as reassuring as intended. Then he bowed down again to pick up the last of the offending objects. “We need to find a way to dispose of these. And then you need to tell me the truth.”

“If you say so, Your Grace.”

They were standing upon a clearing where a small stream meandered its merry way around a copse of lean birch trees, just a couple of steps away from the main road that led through the forest away from Harrenhal. She looked around cautiously before pointing in the rough direction of the stream.

“I was going to toss everything into the river.” She bit her lip again, sinewy fingers tightening the grip on the shin-protectors she was carrying. “Well, not exactly _into_ the river, but into the shrubbery on the far side of the riverbank maybe? It looks overgrown enough from here I guess.”

He gave a curt nod. “We should consider not disposing of everything in the same place. Makes it harder to find.”

“One stray gauntlet in some random bush will not raise suspicion, whereas ...” Her eyes lit up in understanding. Distressed as she might be she certainly wasn’t stupid or helpless, he had to give her that.

“Indeed, my lady.” He couldn’t help but smile.

Without further ado she strode into the clearing and towards the stream, determined to begin her clandestine task. He followed suit and easily fell into step at her side. “If I’m not mistaken we have not yet been formally introduced. If we are to be partners in crime, my lady, I believe I should at least know your name.”

She faltered, clearly considering her options, maybe even thinking about a fake name to claim as her own. Then she sighed as if to admit defeat. “It’s Lyanna.”

“Lyanna,” he repeated, the unsaid question clear.

“Lyanna Stark, Your Grace,” she mumbled, “daughter of Rickard Stark of Winterfell.”

He had been right about her Northern origin then, though he found it hard to believe that the daughter of one of the oldest highborn families in Westeros would choose, let alone be allowed to, dress like a horsemaster’s wife. But then again, he mused, there was a certain royal prince who preferred to don the plainest of cloaks and roam the streets of the capital disguised as a commoner whenever he got the chance.

“Well met, Lady Lyanna. I’m Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“I know.” She laughed out openly, shaking her head. “And I’ll have you know that I don’t usually go around calling every fair-haired chap in Westeros ‘Your Grace’ … _Your Grace_.” She briskly turned away and squatted down, placing a gauntlet in a thick patch of brambles by the riverbank.

Rhaegar chuckled and gallantly offered his outstretched hand to help her up again. “Fair enough, Lady Lyanna.” Once again, she effortlessly matched her steps to his as they continued walking over the clearing, balancing the bits and pieces of knights’ equipment on the shield. “Now pray tell me more about this whole mystery knight business ...”

He was genuinely curious, an admiration for her spirit starting to creep upon him. She took a deep breath and launched into a wild and totally unrelated tale about some battered crannogman who’d caught her eye in the early days of the tourney. He was just meaning to interrupt and ask her to get to the point when she held up her hand and made a cut-throat motion right before he could utter the first word. Rhaegar stood bewildered, mouth ajar, once again taken aback by her lack of manners.

“Shush, you!”

He might not be as distant and humourless as people believed him to be, he might not care for formality and etiquette as much as a royal prince should, he might even have enjoyed her brazenness before, but … Enough! _Pull yourself together, Rhaegar, and put her into her place!_ How dare she shush him, this poor excuse for a Northern noblewoman? Then he heard, and not a moment too late. Heavy footsteps cracking upon dry leaves and twigs, faint voices becoming more audible by the minute. He hurried to meet her eye, nodded in understanding. “White cloaks.”

The search party of course, he had sent them out himself in pursuit of the mystery knight. Disagreeing with his lord father’s irate decision he had been wary about whom to appoint to the search party. Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell he trusted well enough, them being his sworn swords and loyal friends after all, and by extension he trusted whomever they had seen fit to join the search party. But then again, they were at a tourney, an occasion as public as can be with everyone of import in attendance. He was certain that some random lords would have their men join of their own accord, desperately trying to garner a favour with the king and improve their standing at court, inevitably turning Rhaegar’s halfhearted search into a manhunt.

Wordlessly grabbing Lyanna’s arm he pulled her with him as he dove behind a very low and very prickly hedge that fenced the stream.


	2. Lyanna I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing for the GOT/ASOIAF fandom and I'm overwhelmed by your kudos, your comments, and your support. Thank you so much, you people are amazing and I'm looking forward to sharing this journey with you. <3

Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined a tumble in the bushes with a prince, with _the_ prince, desperately trying not to make a sound. A sharp pain jolted through her chest where his royal elbow had hit her upon impact – or maybe it was the aftermath of the joust after all, she couldn’t say for sure. She had to stifle a laugh when the realisation hit her that she was possibly the only young lady in all of the Seven Kingdoms wishing to be anywhere else but in the arms of Rhaegar bloody Targaryen.

“Shush, yourself!”

Her first instinct as she felt his hot breath in the nape of her neck was to yank away, violently so. She didn’t, though, and she had her eldest brother Brandon to thank for that level of self-control – having learned to resist his relentless tickling assaults when she was but a girl proved to be immensely helpful now. Not daring to move she shut her eyes and clenched her fists and waited. Even something as basic as breathing silently was an enormous task when each and every breath deep enough to draw air into her lungs hurt so much it made her want to wince. So she just lay there listening to the crunch of boots on twigs fading away, into the distance.

“Is it over yet?” she whispered as quietly as possible, gritting her teeth.

She could feel a nodding movement somewhere next to her aching shoulder. “I think so. Don’t you worry, my lady, it was only Arthur.”

“Huh? Who’s Arthur?”

“Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Are you quite alright, my lady?”

She had already pushed herself up into a sitting position when he touched her arm ever so gently, an irritating look of concern in his equally irritating violet eyes.

“I believe I am,” she began, but then she stopped mid-sentence and gasped fearfully, “Did you just say _the Sword of the Morning_?!”

Growing up as a tomboy with three brothers, she thrived on tales of valiant knights: those rendered immortal by folklore as well as those currently matching their skills and defending their honour at tourneys all over the realm - tourneys she yearned to be a part of but couldn’t, being a lady and a lady sequestered away up north at that. The past couple of days had been a revelation, her first real tourney and what an excitement it had been! She had seen the Sword of the Morning compete of course, had been amazed beyond words by his seemingly effortless skill, had overheard the hushed murmurs about his presumed deadliness. She refused to believe that an anointed knight, an accomplished knight, a sworn brother of the Kingsguard at that, would be stupid enough not to notice. They hadn’t been as stealthy as they’d attempted to be after all, what with his twitching and her wincing.

“My friend,” the prince insisted.

“If you say so, Your Grace,” she said, unconvinced. “We must make haste. They left towards the main road if I’m not mistaken, so we’ll be safe going the other direction.” The prince shook his head, she shrugged in response. “I won’t hold it against you if you choose to leave me to it, Your Grace … as long as you look the other way.”

“I’m not leaving now, my lady. We’re in this together.” He straightened his shoulders and plucked a stray twig from his vest. “But we should wait until we can be sure that we’re safe. Also, I believe your tale had just begun to get interesting right before we were interrupted.”

 _Damn._ Between the laboured wheezing of her breaths and the painful thorns still sticking in her skin, she had hoped he might’ve had forgotten. May the old gods and the new damn him and his sly royal grin. _Seven Hells,_ there was no getting out of this, was there?

“So what with that crannogman of yours?” he urged her on and she couldn’t help rolling her eyes.

“’That crannogman’ you speak of is my father’s bannerman and my friend!” she cried indignantly before remembering to lower her voice again. “Howland. His name’s Howland and he’s … well, as Your Grace pointed out, he’s a crannogman so he’s … _different_. I mean he learnt different things, growing up in the Neck and everything. He can walk on water just fine I guess but he can’t ride a horse to save his life.”

“So you decided to stand up for him. Ride a horse, save his life, so to speak.”

It took Lyanna a moment too long to notice that she’d been played. Before departing Winterfell for Harrenhal nearly a moon’s turn ago she’d been quite vocal about not wanting to have anything to do, let alone be forced to converse politely with the prince or anyone of the court; but right here and now it felt so easy and familiar that she’d nearly forgotten that they weren’t friends after all. She bit her tongue, cursing inwardly, scrambling for words that were more than a sorry excuse, trying to evade his intense gaze. Ben was the storyteller of the family, Ned was the diplomat, Brandon was the charmer, Lyanna was only a straightforward Northern girl who by default talked faster than she was able to think, not even that adept at making idle chit-chat let alone coming up with elaborate lies. _Damn, stupid! We really should’ve thought this through before ..._

“Sure. I mean, I encouraged my brothers … I’m sure his grace is well aware that I have three brothers, and Howland is our father’s bannerman after all, as House Reed has been for thousands of years. The North remembers, you know. Helping him defend his honour was the least we could do, but … I assure you, Your Grace, nothing ...”

She was stuttering, she was flailing, tugging fiercely at her torn frock, eyes darting all over the place searching for an escape, feeling utterly trapped and ever so ashamed. _Stupid, stupid Lya! No better than some vapid little southron trollop after all, blabbing to the prince of all people!_ She had been trying her best to keep her voice down lest the white cloaks spot them, but she still hadn’t managed to keep her mouth shut. _Seven Hells!_

She flinched when the prince started laughing. “You, my lady Lyanna, are a force to be reckoned with. Your father and brothers should be proud and any bannerman should be grateful to have a liege as loyal as you are.” Lyanna gasped, at a loss for words and unable to see the humour in the situation. “You are also quite mad, you know.”

“B… beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

“You heard me, loud and clear.” The prince rose to his feet, Lyanna defiantly rejecting the offered hand. “We should get this over and done with before it’s too late. They’re bound to come looking for me if I don’t return soon. And so will your brothers, I assume.”

He took one of the leather wrist-wraps in his hand, running his slender fingers over the ragged material before he launched it up into the treetops with merely a flick of his wrist. “How did you even manage to procure all the necessary gear?” he asked.

Lyanna doubted that his question came from sincere curiosity and she was wary to make the same mistake twice. “Nobody in their right mind would come to a tourney without a second set at least, and plenty bits and pieces to spare.”

“You … you _took_ whatever you needed?”

“With all due respect, Your Grace!” Lyanna protested. “We’re Northmen, not wildlings! Our lord father gave us coin aplenty to spend at the tourney if need be. My brother, Ben, he drives a hard bargain is all, and in the end none can resist his charm.”

The prince regarded the visor in his hands, obviously appreciating the craftsmanship that had gone into it before it had gotten all scratched and dented and torn off the helm by Lyanna’s own hands. He was said to be a skilled knight himself, Lyanna remembered, despite never having seen him in combat at the tourney. He walked on, deeper into the woods, she trailed a couple of steps after him until he stopped next to a rotten stump that must have once been a magnificent tree.

“What do you think, my lady?” he whispered conspiratorially.

She nodded, “Perfect,” and the visor disappeared in a cavity in the brittle wood.

“Are you convinced yet that I won’t surrender you to the king as soon as we return to the castle grounds?” His tone was completely conversational, his gait light, easily adjusting to her smaller steps and the uneven ground.

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. Once, twice, and a third time, before she gave up. “I wish it had never … I don’t regret helping a loyal friend out, but … I _am_ sorry, Your Grace, for all the trouble I caused, I truly am.”

“And I’m not,” he said without missing a beat or even looking at her, “I only wish we both were free to cross lances at tomorrow’s joust, Ser Laughing Tree. I would unseat you yet.”

And unseat her he did, for she nearly stumbled over a nonexistant root that had never crossed her path. Fortunately enough she managed to regain her balance before he felt compelled to come to her aid, swooping the damsel in distress up into his arms before she kissed the shedded needles on the ground.

“It … it would be an honour, Your Grace.” She regained her composure, smiling cheekily. “I’m game if you are.”

 _Seven hells, Lya, are you out of your mind!? What was that?_ And all of a sudden, while she was still busy biting her tongue, he stood and stared, grabbing her shoulders and frowning at her with that weird violet stare of his. She froze on the spot, intensely uncomfortable and unable to breathe. Never in her whole life had she felt so scrutinised.

“Don’t even think about it,” he hissed, no longer bothering with all the propriety and the sickly sweet _my lady_ -ing she loathed so much. “It’s all fun and games until it’s not. Your secret is safe with me, but you were lucky. Incredibly, stupidly lucky. You should thank the old gods and the new that it was I who found you, not … somebody, _any_ _body_ else … someone who would’ve dragged you before the king without batting an eye.”

In one swift motion she took his wrists and removed his hands from her body. “I have behaved recklessly, unbecoming of a lady in my position, that much is true, and I apologise for having enraged His Grace the king, for this was never my intention. I am sure that he will find it in his heart to forgive this unfortunate misunderstanding ...”

A bitter guffaw interrupted the impromptu speech her septa would’ve been so proud of. “There’s a good reason they call him the Mad King, you know. Any scary tale that made its way up north, disguised in rumour and song and old wives’ tales, smallfolk burning for no reason and whatnot, you better believe it’s true. He’s no king, he’s an abomination.”

Lyanna’s small hands clutched the shield she was holding even tighter. Her knuckles went white, her throat went dry, and for the first time – for the first time ever, not only since this whole mystery knight business had come crashing, but for the first time since she’d first heard his name, back in the day when her poor septa had tried in vain to trick her into behaving like a proper highborn lady with the idle promise of marrying the handsome heir to the crown some day – she didn’t see the fancy royal dragon prince standing before her, but a person as real and as torn and as flawed as she was.

“That’s treason, Your Grace,” she whispered hoarsely.

“That’s the truth, and I should know for I’m his son, and I wish that ...”

She would’ve listened to him, truly, but she had heard something more important. Hoofbeat, and people shouting, closing in rapidly enough to have her worried. Without thinking she placed her palm onto Rhaegar’s chest and shoved him unceremoniously into the wall thick with ivy and spiders that separated Harrenhal’s godswood from the regular forest. They would be safe there, hidden from view behind a massive tree, she hoped.

“It’s not your friend Arthur again, is it?” Lyanna mouthed silently.

“No. Just pray they don’t have hounds,” the prince mumbled.

Instinctively, Lyanna stood closer to Rhaegar, wrapping her arms around his middle, hugging him close as if he were Ben or Ned or even Brandon on a particularly nasty winter’s night, quietly supporting each other while darkness closed in over Winterfell and Old Nan’s stories got more and more gruesome, waiting for the storm to pass. And it passed, as storms often did. The search party hadn’t even come close before they took of into a different direction. Lyanna let out a sigh she wasn’t aware she’d been holding in before she sheepishly removed herself as far as possible from the prince’s embrace. Again.

“Give me the shield,” was all that he said, awkwardly clearing his throat.

“We’ll need to chop it up … or something,” she said after thorough consideration. There weren’t many offending items left, and the brightly painted shield – half as high and twice as broad as she was – would certainly be a nuisance to dispose of.

The prince shook his head. “I’ll take it, bring it before the king. Wax some poetic about how I did my best and still couldn’t find anything but this shield … left hanging in a tree or something after the mystery knight cowardly fled the premises. It will appease him enough and with everything else going on he’ll have lost interest by nightfall. Hopefully.”

She leaned onto the shield, sad to see it go. It had been a worthwhile protection after all, and dear little Ben had spent so much time and dedication on painting it, questionable as his attempt at heraldry might be, lopsided grin on the heart-tree and all. But she couldn’t not see the logic in the prince’s arguments.

“Go on then,” she said, and it took her much longer than she cared to admit before she remembered to add, “Your Grace.”

Rhaegar – _the prince_ , she corrected herself internally – swiftly took her hand in his. His thumb, calloused from plucking harp-strings, briefly caressed her bruised knuckles before he courteously dipped his head to kiss her hand.

“Stay safe, Lady Lyanna,” he said before he picked up the shield and vanished into the thicket of the forest.

Lyanna was left standing, unable to breathe.


	3. Rhaegar II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes Elia. She's such a complex and tragic character so writing her isn't easy but I really want to do her justice and give her some agency. Also, tonight's the night we'll hopefully get some answers from the show! I won't be able to watch the episode until Tuesday or maybe even Wednesday, so please please please be considerate ... I love your comments, I don't love spoilers. ;-)

“Sorry to bother you, but your favourite princess desperately wants a kiss.”

Looking up at his wife, Rhaegar couldn’t help but smile fondly. He had been distractedly picking at his harp for way longer than he cared to admit, so the interruption, unanticipated as it may be, wasn’t exactly an unwelcome one.

“Come on then, my darling.” Rising from his uncomfortable chair he swooped the princess up in his arms and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead in one swift motion. “Do you want to hear a song before it’s time for bed?”

Rhaenys gurgled enthusiastically, Rhaegar kissed and squeezed her again before pulling her into his lap. Priding himself at his ability to balance both a delicate instrument and a squirming infant he started to pluck the strings with nimble fingers. When his voice caught at a particularly somber line, Rhaenys screeched in protest.

“You know she prefers that bear song to all the sad ballads of yours,” Elia remarked softly.

Rhaegar chuckled. “You of all people campaigning to include more bawdy tavern songs into our daughter’s education.”

“I _am_ Dornish after all,” Elia said with a wink, but the lighthearted moment passed way too quickly and her delicate features became overcast once again. “Something is bothering you, my prince, I can tell. That nasty business with your father and that ominous knight?”

He started singing again, a different song this time, all the while bouncing little Rhaenys on his knee and purposefully evading his wife’s question.

“You are about to do something incredibly stupid, aren’t you?” Elia inquired and her calm demeanor irritated Rhaegar to no end. “You are not going to insult your father, are you?”

“Not my father, no,” he mumbled, “Elia, I ...”

“Whatever it is you’re planning, I won’t be mad. But you should get some rest, my prince. Tomorrow is your big day and not one tired knight has ever done well on the tourney grounds … just ask Oberyn if you won’t believe me.”

Her argument, wise as it might be, had interrupted his train of thought. “So should you. You look utterly exhausted, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Frankly, I am.” Elia let out a weary sigh. “I shall retire as soon as the wet nurse comes to retrieve the little one.”

Throughout the nearly three years that had passed since the announcement of his betrothal to the Dornish princess, he had learned that he didn’t need to love his wife in order to care for her; and care for her he did. Considering her weak constitution and ever-fragile health, having only just recovered from the trial that was giving life to darling Rhaenys, he had implored her to forego the hardships of travel and the excitements of the tourney and stay behind in the capital instead. ‘With the king joining us at Harrenhal after all it might as well be a holiday for you and Mother and the little ones, and Gods know you’ve deserved it,’ he had suggested, but she couldn’t be convinced. ‘His Grace loathes me enough as it is,’ she had insisted, ‘I shan’t bring any shame, let alone His Grace’s wrath, upon you by indulging myself. My place is at your side, my prince.’ _I should have_ _been more adamant_ , a nagging voice in his head admonished.

Rhaenys, unaware of the ever-present tension between the adults in the room, stuck out her little arms towards her mother, cheerfully bubbling something that could or could not have sounded like _Mama._ Rhaegar’s eyes met Elia’s, if only for a split second, waiting for her nod of approval before he put on a great show in handing her over. As soon as she’d safely landed in her mother’s embrace though, little Rhaenys once again screeched in protest, obviously wanting to return to her father. Elia rocked her once, twice, a third time, before she bounced the princess, no longer a babe and not yet a child, back to her husband. He couldn’t help but indulge her with the ridiculous cooing sounds she enjoyed so much before he launched into song again, an upbeat tune about a dragon hatchling learning to spread its wings that had been a childhood favourite of his, and sent little Rhaenys flying back to her mother.

“You can talk to me, Rhaegar, you do know that?” Elia said suddenly, taking him by surprise.

He couldn’t even remember the last time she had called him by his name; to her, he was always ‘my prince’, even in private conversation which rarely delved into topics beyond necessity, court matters, and their daughter, even in their marriage bed of all places she insisted on keeping that barrier of distance and formality firmly in place. It had been a long time since he'd considered talking to her freely, confiding in her even. Her question had been plain enough, nevertheless she had taken him unaware and it took him far too long to come up with an answer. Just as he opened his mouth to speak the wet nurse came burgeoning in and Elia departed with her and the child. Rhaegar sat back, stunned, and thrummed his fingers over the harp in frustration.

For a fleeting moment he felt sorry for Elia, for she’d been right. What he was planning _was_ incredibly stupid, but he couldn’t just _not_ do it. He should’ve told her, though, but that chance had come and gone; and then again there must be at least a grain of truth in the age-old adage that it was easier to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission. He might not know her as well as he should have, let alone as well as he would have liked, but he knew of her silent and ever-enduring disapproval in regards to general Westerosi mores and customs, for all that she was endeavouring to be the perfect Targaryen princess. Being a Dornishwoman at heart, raised with equality and diversity as her core values, she might even appreciate the gesture he was attempting to make.

Still, Lyanna Stark deserved so much more. She deserved to have her skill and her bravery acknowledged, she deserved to cross lances with the best and most valiant knights of the realm on tomorrow’s final day of jousting, she deserved to have the crowds cheer for her and the fellow knights slap her back and an overeager squire upend a tankard of ale on her in celebration, she deserved a song for she had earned it. A mere wreath of flowers to wear on her pretty little head was not enough, bold move that it might be it was but a consolation prize, a sorry excuse for the injustice of the whole world.

He couldn’t not respect her audacity. Being but a girl, barely a woman and certainly not a knight, she was braver than he’d ever been, taking a risk greater than any he’d ever dared to take, for an insult much lesser than the abuse those he cared for had to endure in a daily basis, for someone whom she couldn’t possibly care for as much as he cared for his family … _or his people_ , a voice chided in his head. Consequences aside, she deserved a reward for acting nobler and braver than many an anointed knight would have in her situation, protecting those in need of protection, putting the honour and well-being of others before her own. He couldn’t give her what she deserved, that much was certain. Were she a squire, or any courageous youngling actually, he would’ve knighted her right then and there, but alas, that was not an option. Eliciting a wailing sound from the harp, he let out an exasperated sigh. It had been but a stray thought at first, so why could he not get the picture out of his head anymore? Lyanna Stark, kneeling before him clad in a noble knight’s finery, breaching – no, _smashing_ , purposefully smashing – protocol once again when she defiantly lifts her chin to give him a steely grey gaze and this wicked grin of hers while he lays his sword upon her and pronounces the words … but he couldn't do that, of course, lest he give all the lords in the realm apoplexy, let alone a reason to revolt, lest she suffer a fate much worse than that of Brave Danny Flint at the hands of the monstrosity that was his sire. She was a lady after all, for all that she was a fierce she-wolf and not a prim and proper little lady who cared for songs and flowers, and ladies … 

 _Seven hells, Rhaegar, you fool!_ he chastised himself when this particular train of thought came to a screeching halt. There was much to consider if he wanted to execute his plan without leaving a raging trail of wildfire in its wake.

He had named his wife the Queen of Love and Beauty before; and he’d made sure that the crown was well-suited to her taste. The Lady Ashara had been ever so helpful on that occasion, assembling Dornish yew and those golden flowers with an exotic Rhoynish name he couldn’t remember that were native to his wife’s beloved homeland and just as beautiful and delicate as she was … but that wouldn’t do, not at all, not this time. He wouldn’t insult his wife so, not if he could help it. He would explain, and she would understand. He stilled his fingers upon the harp-strings, sighing with the last fading tones, then he rose to open the door of his makeshift quarters.

“Your Grace!” The White Cloak standing guard by the entrance pulled his shoulders back into his usual half-hearted salute.

“Arthur.” Rhaegar beckoned him to come in. “I require your assistance in an important matter.”

“Certainly, Your Grace,” the knight responded, “Just let me know and I’ll do what I can.”

“I’ll need you to acquire a wreath of winter roses in case I am victorious tomorrow.”

“ _Winter roses_ , Your Grace?” The knight raised his eyebrows suspiciously. “With all due respect, Your Grace, I have already tasked my lady sister with binding the bough that would grace the princess’s head, assuming ...”

For a moment Rhaegar considered confiding in the man who wasn’t only his sworn sword but his loyal friend, knowing full well that an overabundance of _Your Grace_ s in Ser Arthur Dayne’s speech was always a sure sign of disapproval. He didn’t dare, though, all the thoughts that had been running through his head still too fresh and too raw to share with anyone. A good night’s sleep would help with that, he hoped.

“Winter roses please, Ser Arthur,” he insisted, “And have the princess summoned to my solar first thing in the morning, for I wish to break my fast with her.”

“Certainly, Your Grace. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Not at the moment, Arthur, but thank you.”

The door closed after the White Cloak with a heavy thud, his dutiful last sentence a thinly veiled euphemism for _Rhaegar, you complete and utter fool, what are you even doing?_ He couldn’t even hold it against him, vows of obedience or not, for he was thinking very much the same thing himself.


	4. Ned I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a hard time writing Young Ned's POV, so comments and constructive criticism are very welcome! In other news, I've finally seen the S7 finale and ... aaaah! arrrrgh! awwww! You know what I mean, don't you? ;-)

His gait was fast yet unsteady; keeping his head down and not daring to glance at anyone who crossed his path he managed to get lost in the seemingly endless corridors of Harrenhal … _again_. They were whispering, rudely and for everyone to hear, or maybe it was just his imagination, making him as paranoid as the Mad King himself. By the time he had managed to find the quarters where the Stark family was lodged, he was out of breath and out of his mind, because walking hadn’t calmed him the way it usually did. The man standing guard at the door wore a direwolf on his breastplate yet Ned, having been away from his ancestral home and its people for so long, didn’t recognise his face. He gave him a curt nod, hoping that would be enough – with everyone on the edge he prayed to be spared the embarrassment of having to explain that he was in fact Eddard Stark, second son of Winterfell, simply calling with his family thank you very much and could he please be admitted – and indeed it was. As soon as he had slipped through the door he could hear the yelling; even though he couldn’t yet make out any words with Harrenhal’s thick walls in the way it was fairly obvious what it was all about. He slumped against the wall and took a deep breath, then he steeled himself and quietly entered the room that was obviously the main solar of the apartment.

“You never once minded me going off with Benjen to practise in the woods, you bloody hypocrite!” Lya screamed at their elder brother, “You even covered for me, back then when Father started to disapprove after I’d flowered, remember?”

“This is not Winterfell!” Brandon barked back, “This is not a game, don’t you see?”

“He’s our friend!” Ben piped up, “We had to do _something_!”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Brandon’s fist came thundering down onto the first flat surface he could find, a stray inkwell splashing in its wake. “He’s a perfect stranger whose father is sworn to our father is all. You should’ve brought it to me to sort it out!”

“We would’ve, had you not been busy _making friends_ with purple-eyed maidens and other assorted Southron wenches!” Lya threw her hands up in exasperation. “You have no right going all Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the bloody North on us, because you’re not!”

“So that’s that!” Ben’s voice broke once again in a feeble attempt at manhood, always eager to support his sister.

Ned had spent the better part of the evening listening to Robb rage and rave about the bloody dragon prince’s audacity, about his untoward advances, and now he didn’t understand a word. Having been apart from his family for such a long time, he couldn’t help but feel like an intruder. He had grown and changed so much while fostering at the Eyrie, but so had they, and every time they met it felt like he had to get to know them all over again even though they were so familiar and beloved and _home_. A fortnight here and there was hardly enough to make up for all the time they’d lost. He’d admired Brandon for his lordly demeanor, had a good laugh at the poor excuse for a beard little Ben was trying to cultivate on his boyish face, but certainly Lya’s teats was what had irritated him most. In his mind his sweet sister would always be a little girl, for all that she was a ferocious tomboy, but now she stood before him as a woman grown he barely recognised. Not truly being one of them anymore, loath as he was to admit it, even to himself, mayhaps that was exactly why they needed him now more then ever. He closed his eyes for a moment, considering what Lord Arryn would do. From him he had learned how to deal with politics and scheming and how to deal with the inevitable fallout and minimise losses. He´had never imagined having to make use of all that at a long-awaited family reunion.

Standing ramrod straight, Ned cleared his throat.

Ben made a leap towards him, he couldn’t help it because honestly, he was still such a child. Ned’s embrace was stony and awkward. He peered over the top of his little brother’s dark head towards his sister who was seething under her breath and couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge his presence.

“Ned,” Brandon said with a curt nod that was all Father, “What do you make of it all, pray tell? Maybe you can talk some sense into the little ones, what with your Southron diplomacy and all.”

Ned chose to ignore the tone in Brandon’s voice that was clearly mocking him and the ways he’d learned with Jon Arryn at the Eyrie. Northerners, as a rule, didn’t care for polite elaborations, they thought careful wording a flight of fancy at best and a ruse insulting their intelligence at worst. But thankfully he still was a Northman at the end of the day, so he chose a straightforward approach.

“What are you even talking about, brother? I thought this was about the dragon prince creating a scandal and sullying our sister’s honour, not about some random bannerman?”

“It’s one and the same!” Brandon snapped before he deigned to elaborate.

Ned fell into a chair. He hadn’t meant to but he simply stumbled back and fell, slumping his shoulders and burying his face in his hands as Brandon raged on and on and on while Lya and Ben kept on yelling excuses and justifications over every other sentence he said. This was exactly what King Aerys’ wildfire must look like unleashed.

“You can’t be serious,” he mouthed, finally managing to get a word out, but only because all of his siblings just so happened to pause for air at the same time.

“Dead serious,” Brandon said with a cold and bitter laugh, “Our sweet sister, the knight of the fucking tree!”

“The _Laughing Tree_!” Ben insisted indignantly.

“Shut up, Benjen, or I’ll have you sent to the Wall!” Brandon snapped.

“Lyanna,” Ned said, steadying his voice, and he realised his mistake as soon as he’d uttered the second syllable. Nobody ever called her thusly, only people who’d add a ‘Lady’ before her name and a polite bow or curtsy after, and Father when he was tremendously angry. Ned couldn’t even say whether he was angry or disappointed or …

“Yes, _Eddard_?” Lyanna spat back and Ned chos eto ignore the provocation.

“What did you even think? Are you out of your mind? How could you make him crown you Queen of Love and Beauty?”

“I didn’t ...” Lyanna began, stumbling over her words she didn’t speak fast enough to keep Brandon from cutting in.

“You didn’t think?” There was icy venom in his voice. “I wouldn’t have thought!”

“I didn’t _make him_!” Lya yelled, tears of embarassment springing into her eyes. “I don’t know why he did it! I was as surprised as everyone when that damn thing landed in my lap! I don't want his attention, I'm not that kind of girl! You of all people should know me better!”

“I believe you,” Ned cut in, just in time before Brandon could hurl another insult at her. “Still, there must be _something_ … something you did that led him to wrong assumptions.”

“No!” Lyanna snapped, seething. “How dare you, Ned. How dare you!”

“I’m not the one whose being unreasonable here. You were terribly taken with that song His Grace sung at the grand feast, so ...”

“Brandon here was _terribly taken_ with every other lady at the feast, purple-eyed or not, and yet you don’t blame him for anything!” Lya prowled the room like a caged animal, slowly but surely closing in on Ned, who stiffened. He knew his sister well enough to know that she was quick to anger and quick to forgive, but it was when she went quiet that she was at her most dangerous, readying herself to pounce mercilessly. Such was the wolf-blood legacy after all. “Brandon could put a bastard into the belly of every woman between here and the Last Hearth, and for all that we know he _did_ , and you’d still laugh it away as Brandon being Brandon. But when some random stranger as much as looks at me in passing, you’re up in arms!”

“You know full well that it’s not some random stranger we’re talking about! A married man, a father, and the crown prince at that!” Ned growled.

“And he didn’t just look at you in passing!” Brandon was quick to supply, “He looked at you as if he wanted to bed you right then and there, because let’s be honest, what else does that honour even mean? Honour for those who deserve it – wives, betrothed, sisters, mothers even – but else? Not so much of an honour after all, but ...”

“That’s it, both of you!” Lya stopped her prowling to look him dead in the eye, and nothing in that haunting gaze reminded him of his sister’s gleaming slate eyes that he loved so well. “For all that you’re furious about some purported slight on my honour … look no further, you seem to manage insulting my honour – and _me_ , at that – quite well on your own.”

“Lya, don’t be petty!” Ben cut in, bless him, but Lya wouldn’t have any of it.

“Shut it, Ben. All of you, actually,” she growled, “I’ll have no more of this. I’m out of here.”

Lya stormed out of the room with nothing but a thud and a harsh breeze left in her wake.

"Lya!" Ben scrambled up from his chair, ready to scurry after her, but Brandon stilled him with a clench on his arm that could as well have translated into _Heel, pup!_ and Ben, the look of torn loyalties evident on his face, stilled and sat.

If he were entirely honest to himself, Ned didn’t feel that different. “We should go after her,” he suggested softly.

“Come on, Ned!” Brandon let out an exasperated sigh, falling back onto a chair and pouring himself a generous glass of whatever liquor it was in the carafe that Lya had managed not to shatter in the wake of her ire. “She’s run off to her rooms to cry like a girl, what are we going to do?”

“She _is_ a girl after all.” Ned said with a deep sigh.

“Thing is, brother.” Brandon straightened his shoulders, shoving a second glass of liquor into Ned’s hands and administering a sharp slap on Ben’s eagerly begging one all in the same motion. “She’s not. A girl, that is, not anymore, not since … you might not have noticed, but ...”

“I did.” Ned, not usually much of a drinker, took a deep gulp.

“She’s a woman flowered, and has been for quite some time now, she’s to be wedded before summer comes, maybe even within the year,” Brandon continued, “I can’t have her behave like a petulant child that fancies itself a knight or even worse, bring scandal over our house.”

“You sound like Father!” Ben complained. " _And_ you're being mean!"

“Father is the Stark at Winterfell. It’s my responsibility to fill his shoes and be the Stark here.” Brandon set down his grass with a clinking thud. “In time you’ll see that it’s not an easy task, little one. Especially not with Lya running rampage.”

“She will come to her senses at some point, Bran,” Ned said calmly, “She always does.”

“It might be too late then. For all that we know, she might even have a royal bastard in her belly already.” Brandon grabbed the carafe and filled his glass up to the brink with the amber liquid. “The scandal is well under way, and you know how much these bored-out-of-their-minds Southerners love themselves a scandal. Tell me, brother, what does the Stormlord say?”

“He is … perturbed,” Ned said carefully.

“ _Perturbed_ , so so,” Brandon mimicked, emptying his glass in one fell swoop. “That’s the fancy southron word for _rabid_ , right?”

Ned nodded sheepishly.

“Is he planning on casting our sister aside?”

“I don’t know,” Ned admitted, noticing full well that the look of fury in his brother’s eyes matched that of his foster-brother’s. “I think he’d rather go ahead and pummel the prince in his chest than take his anger out on Lya.”

“Great.” Brandon let out a humourless laugh. “Then Lya will have her way after all. Can’t marry someone who’s been strung up for treason, can’t you?”

“I can’t see why she despises him so,” Ned shrugged, “Robb’s a good man, and he fancies her plenty.”

“Better than that blasted prince,” Brandon snarled, “She’ll come around. She always does. Don’t you worry, brother.”

He couldn’t help it, though. Worrying, that was Ned Stark’s nature, and how he wished he could drown all of it in a glass of strong and pungent liquor or maybe three. He had his family to worry about, Lya first and foremost, and Robb’s ire that wasn’t usually as easily soothed as Lya’s, in that they were well-suited after all, and all the yelling aside there had been far too much talk of matters of heart and insanity and purple-eyed maidens for his liking tonight.

“Bran?” he started, but cut himself off before his brother could even look up. “I need to go,” was all he said.


	5. Elia I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting to write this for a long time and then it came out all wrong. You might know the feeling. Constructive criticism is very welcome, as always.

“I said give us the room,” Elia said with an exasperated sigh, but she needn’t have repeated herself. Ashara had already taken charge of the situation and all but manhandled Oberyn towards the doorway, keeping a charming smile on her face and her hips purposefully close to Oberyn’s shapely rear. Though most people didn’t bother to look beyond her spectacular beauty, Ashara was a resourceful woman of many talents and Elia, knowing full well that there was a huge difference between a gaggle of court companions and an actual friend, was glad to have her as her lady-in-waiting.

She turned back before she finally left, never once loosening the grip on Oberyn’s arm. “Is there anything else you need, dear?”

“Thank you, but we’ll be alright.” She turned her head and looked at her husband for the first time, “Won’t we, my prince?”

“We will. Thank you, Lady Ashara.”

“I’ll be right outside,” Ashara said with a worried look Elia couldn’t quite place.

Elia closed her eyes, let herself sink back into the plump cushions stabilising her back, before steeling herself and facing her husband. She wasn’t as fragile as everyone at court seemed to think, not by a long shot.

The prince was awkwardly standing in the room, obviously unsure of what to say or even where to put his hands, looking down at her who was still half-lounging on the recliner, at a loss for words herself. When Elia motioned for him to sit he took the maester’s wooden stool instead of one of the comfortable plush chairs. The silence in the room was so tangible it could’ve been cut with a sword, and then he cleared his throat.

“I am sorry, Elia, terribly sorry.”

She had prepared herself for what she wanted to say, spurred by Oberyn and Ashara who hadn’t left her side since disaster had struck, both more enraged by the slight than she had been. Her brother was boiling over, not caring to contain his tempestuous indignation, threatening every form of violence; her friend was constantly fussing over her, her lilac eyes clouded with worry and pity dripping from her soft voice every time she touched her arm. Elia however had found herself in a state of dispassionate composure that felt terrifyingly alien to her after all those times at court when she had to force herself into impassivity. In her mind she played the scene a thousand times and then some, finding her strength in long-forgotten places, finding all the right words to say, the diplomatic and the accusing and the scathing and the shaming; she had considered lashing out at him and driving the force of the spear and the sun trough him, she had considered being magnanimously graceful and forgiving, so much in fact that he wouldn’t be able to deal with his guilt, she had considered leaving for Dorne in a great display of theatrics, finally presented with a viable chance to go home, she had considered never speaking to him again and having him endure her cold disdain forever. Now that he was sat before her it all went out of the window in a heartbeat without her consciously choosing it.

“I never intended to hurt you,” the prince began anew, but she cut him off right away.

“Rest assured, you didn’t.” Her voice was sharper than it was bitter and it was only half a lie. “We both know full well that our marriage is but a political arrangement and my heart is not yours to break, my prince.”

She hadn’t thought it possible that her husband could blanch so much that his skin and his hair were exactly the same colour, the bewildered stare of his indigo eyes a garish contrast. “Elia ...”

“There was one thing I asked of you when we were married. Only one thing.” She swallowed uncomfortably to keep her voice from breaking, for she didn’t want to sound as feeble as he did. “ _Respect_.”

“Elia ...” he tried again, but to no avail.

“I have no idea what you were trying to accomplish with that stunt and frankly it doesn’t matter,” she continued coolly, “I adhere to my house words in that matter. The political repercussions are yours to deal with, and yours alone. Nevertheless, you should have at least shown the decency to warn me in advance.”

“I tried …” Rhaegar was running his fingers through his hair the way he was wont to do when he was distressed, nervously glancing at her. “Elia, please … I shouldn’t have followed through with this without discussing it with you first. And I tried, but ... You were gone before I could muster up the courage yesterday, and then you were unwell in the morning, so ...”

“You wanted to … you wanted to ask my _permission_? Or my opinion at least?” Elia sat back, stunned. Once again, all the arguments she had prepared were rendered null and void, out of the window in one fell swoop. Once again, and maybe for the first time ever, her husband had managed to catch her totally unawares.

“Of _course_ ,” Rhaegar insisted, “You’re my _wife_.”

Elia cradled a cup of tea in her hands, hiding herself in the sweet steam before she took a sip and then another. “And you’re a fool, Rhaegar Targaryen,” she said, finally, after a long and silent period of consideration.

Never had she ever spoken her mind to her husband, not once in the three years she’d known him. Firstly, there was Doran’s voice in her head, reminding her that the other six kingdoms didn’t approve of Dornish ways, that she had better be meek and complacent and obedient lest she wake the dragon, whatever that meant, and _It’s only for your best, Elia_ _my sweet_. Secondly, and more importantly, there was Aerys, whom she was loath of to think as her king let alone her good-father, who made he keep her head down and her voice silenced, and when he was screeching for wildfire she started to understand what _waking the dragon_ was supposed to mean. Ever since she had witnessed it for the first time she had been terrified that her husband would turn out to be the same at some point. The person sitting before her was anything but. She pitied him, she realised, pitied him more than dear Ashara pitied her, pitied him so much that she couldn’t even care to be enraged or even insulted.

“Why?” was all she wanted to know.

“Because I could see no other way to reward the bravery of a girl.” Rhaegar gave a sullen smile. “Don’t tell anyone, but Lyanna Stark was the mystery knight.”

A wholly undignified laugh escaped her. “Look at me, convinced you’d fallen head over heels in love with the wolf-,” _wolf-bitch_ , a voice in her head supplied, one that sounded uncannily like Oberyn’s, but once again she reined herself in, “the wolf-girl, fearing you’d cast me aside. Turns out you’re nothing but a gallant fool with a penchant for dramatics.”

“I’m ever so sorry, Elia.” Rhaegar couldn’t help but chuckle himself. “Can you forgive me?”

“I might.” She shrugged. This revelation had been so anticlimactic she couldn’t really believe it. There must be more to it, she was quite sure of that, life itself had taught her that nothing was ever easy after all. She would have to find a way to get further reassurance. “I understand your fascination. For all that I have the blood of Queen Nymeria in me, I’m not your warrior princess.”

“I never expected you to be.” Rhaegar leaned forward, reaching for Elia’s hand and giving it a clumsy pat that was certainly meant to be reassuring. “This isn’t about you, Elia, nor is it about you and me. This is about honour.”

_A-ha!_ She scoffed; so she’d been right after all, there _was_ more to it than the prince let on. “So you’re choosing her honour over mine, my prince?” As soon as the words had left her mouth, Elia winced. She hadn’t meant to sound so belligerent, for all that she secretly wanted to slap his ever so handsome royal face, because that simply wasn’t her style. She took a deep breath and calmed herself, taking another sip of tea.

“If this world were a better place I wouldn’t have had to make that choice!” Rhaegar insisted. “If it were, she would’ve ridden to her victory and been rewarded accordingly, as befits a tourney knight. Alas, that’s not an option, so I had to make a gesture. I’d assumed that you would appreciate that, being a Dornishwoman and more inclined to ...”

_Oh my prince, you don’t understand the first thing about what it means to be Dornish!_ Elia thought sadly, but that was not a discussion she was willing to have. All of a sudden she felt utterly exhausted.

“So you deliberately chose to dishonour me, your wife, the mother of your child,” _and a princess in her own right_ , she wanted to add but didn’t, “in order to honour that girl and her ill-advised recklessness.”

She stifled a bitter laugh, and her curiosity. Once upon a time there was a little girl who dreamed about being as valiant and as cunning as Nymeria, most little girls in Dorne did (the little boys too, for that matter), especially those who descended directly from the Rhoynish warrior queen. The same little girl envied her little brother for his strength and skill, and for all that she longed to join him she couldn’t because her health would not allow such exertion. But that was before the little girl learned that she was going to be a queen one day, before her mother and elder brother encouraged her to replace any dream she might’ve had with an ambitious goal. If she were entirely honest with herself the part of Princess Elia that was still that little girl from Sunspear couldn’t help but admire one Lyanna Stark’s audacity. Under different circumstances she might have been inclined to learn more about the girl, maybe even introduce her to Oberyn because she sounded like the only kind of woman who would be able to handle him and having him unwed wouldn’t do much longer if they wanted to follow Doran’s lead and improve Dorne’s standing, but … _seven hells! Seven hells indeed._

“I didn’t ...” The began, but Elia cut him off again.

“But you did.” She sighed deeply. “I wish you’d just gone on and fallen in love with her. That would make it easier to bear and easier to accept. For me, and for everyone else, too.”

“Elia ...” That _Elia_ again, the first syllable drawn out into a plead with that annoying posh accent of his. She would make sure to slap him if he said her name like that once more.

“I mean it, my prince. You did not pause to see the looks on the courtier’s faces … or your father’s, for that matter. You have caused a scandal and it will be your undoing. Immature folly and a misplaced sense of justice the only reason.

“What do you even mean?” The prince’s indigo eyes went wide.

_I mean that nobody in their right mind would choose one insane ruler over the other, you idiot._ She wanted to scream at him, but she knew better. The king was in the adjoining quarters after all, this was not the right time nor place to have a long overdue conversation.

“You know full well what I mean,” she said, and it wasn’t even a lie on her part, which is why she needed this conversation to be over. “Think about it, my prince. And do send Lady Ashara in on your way out.”

She was fully prepared to feign an attack of fatigue just to get rid of her husband, but it wasn’t necessary after all. Utter confusion was written on his face when he muttered his goodbyes and stumbled out of her solar. She lay back on the recliner, closing her eyes, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass, trying to make sense of everything that stopped making sense three hours ago when her husband had ridden past her and the ranks had gone deafeningly quiet.

“Elia, my dear.” A familiar voice shook her from her meditative state. When she opened her eyes she was glad to see her lady-in-waiting pour her some more tea and even gladder that she hadn’t brought Oberyn with her. “Shove over and tell me everything.”

Elia chuckled quietly and did as she was told. Ashara Dayne happened to be the only person in the Seven Kingdoms who didn’t bother handling her with kid gloves; now, she settled by her princess’s feet and looked at her askance.

“Do we hate him?” Ashara inquired carefully

“No, Shari. We don’t.”

“Because we can’t, him being the prince and all?” As always, Ashara was more than ready to come to her friend’s defense. “Fuck that, Elia. Fuck him.”

“Because we won’t,” Elia insisted, vigorously pushing herself up into a sitting position, “Because he can’t help himself, and he’s not in love with her. It’s more complicated than that I’m afraid.”

With that, Elia Martell, daughter of Nymeria herself, lay her head on Ashara’s shoulder and started to cry.


	6. Lyanna II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this got waaay longer than I had planned ... I simply couldn't stop writing, I love them too much and there's too much to tell. 4.5k words of angst and fluff and hurt and comfort and banter and impropriety ... and for some reason I can hear Three Eyed Weirdo Bran in my head, going: "And that, Jon, is how he met your mother." XD Sorry for the wait, I do hope it's worth it, though.

She had assumed that her escape would be a short-lived one, allowing her barely enough time to yell out her frustration and calm her temper. The looming weirwood trees helped every time she found herself in a frenzy, ever since she was a little girl, and for all that southron godswoods were a poor excuse for a proper godswood she appreciated the familiar ambiance that gave her a sense of belonging, of being _rooted_. The footsteps were closing in on her now, heavy yet hesitant, so it could only be Ned. She steadied her breath and straightened her shoulders, for she wouldn’t be taken by surprise. “Fuck off, Ned!” is what lay on her tongue as she turned, but luckily her mouth snapped shut just in time when she realised that the person behind her wasn’t her brother or anyone of her household. Once again she froze to the spot, staring in bewilderment at the man who’d saved and ruined her life in the course of three days. Night had not yet fallen and the onset of red-and-silvery twilight made him look like something he was not: a dazzling knight in shining armour.

“Seems like I’m not the only one in dire need of an escape,” he said softly, “Mind if I join you, my lady?”

 _Seven hells! This can’t be real, can it?_ She was aware of how perfectly ridiculous she must look, mouth ajar and angry confusion written on her face, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. For all that she wanted to forget she could still feel the chill running through her bones when the arena fell silent, knowing full well what was about to happen while everyone else in attendance was still wondering why the prince had ridden past his wife and she might have been the only one who noticed the apologetic half-smile he cast in her direction. A sense of doom made her avert her gaze while everyone else, craving for sensation, kept on staring into the eye of the scandal that was about to unfold. She’d been sick to her stomach, still was, and not one of the blows she’d been dealt a day earlier during the joust with the three inglorious knights had hurt that much. She wasn’t a pious woman, that much was sure, but in that moment she had prayed, silently and fervently; prayed for dragonfire to put an end to it all before it even began, prayed for the ground to open up an ugly chasm and swallow her whole, prayed for whichever higher power might grant her the mercy to take her away. But to no avail, the crown of winter roses had landed in her lap accompanied by a smug smile and a conspiratorial wink, and all of a sudden everyone’s eyes were on her. The world had stopped turning when she had stopped breathing, and it was only when her betrothed, two rows of seats removed from her and her family, broke into a bellowing laugh and a sarcastic slow clap that she’d snapped back into the grim reality of it all. She’d jumped to her feet before hot tears of embarrassment could spring into her eyes, and the crown had barely touched the ground when she turned and ran, hectically weaving through the spectators, trying to escape it all. Last she knew, Ben was in pursuit, his panic-stricken boyish voice crying out her name. She clenched her eyes shut and balled her fists, willing herself to forget what was still too fresh and too raw in her mind. She’d never cared about being a proper lady, after all, until he’d come along and ruined it for her. Another wave of anger and humiliation surged over her, but she was determined to withstand it this time, resisting the urge to run.

“My lady?” he insisted, though ever so cautiously, and she couldn’t take it any more.

“You bloody fool!” she cried, trying and failing not to forget her manners and scream into his face, “What did you even think?”

“Too much and yet not enough, or so it seems.” His voice was guilt-stricken and quiet, the pain on his elegant features evident.

“Why?” She scoffed at his mysterious non-answer. “Why did you do it, _Your Grace_? Why did you choose me?”

“Because you’re braver than most and I saw no other way to acknowledge ...”

“Brave?!” She stared at him incredulously. “I better be if I have to weather this scandal and its consequences. My brothers are livid, and so is my betrothed.”

“Your _betrothed_?”

“Robert Baratheon of Storm’s End. We’re to be married before winter’s over.” Never before had she been so adamant about the match she opposed so much. Saying the words irked her tremendously, but she knew full well what effect it would have, and she was not mistaken. Men always seemed to care more about the sensitivities of their fellow man than about a mere woman after all.

“The Stag is my second cousin,” the prince muttered apologetically, and she would’ve laughed were it not so bitter, “I wasn’t aware, my lady. I’ll be sure to make amends, if I can.”

“Were you not aware of your own marriage either? Or do you simply not care?” The words left her mouth before she could stop herself, and once again she stood frozen in the aftermath.

“Elia’s heart is not mine to break, she said so herself!” the prince spat back, and then he, too, stilled on the spot, stupefied by what he’d just said.

A moment came and went, it could as well have been an eternity, then Lyanna laughed out loud, bitterly and very ungracefully. “Then I feel even more sorry for her. Believe me, _Your Grace_ , I understand full well what a political match entails and what it doesn’t. If you wish to take a mistress it’s your prerogative of course, but … you could at least have the decency to make it less of a spectacle.”

“Mistress?” The prince guffawed, “Lady Lyanna, rest assured, that was _not_ my intention!”

She spluttered out a string of incoherent sounds refusing to form a whole word or even a sentence. And when she caught her breath again, straightening her shoulders and looking him into the eye for the first time since he’d ambushed her in her place of peace in the godswood, she couldn’t be bothered with propriety anymore. There was not one person in the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms, and let they be yet so uneducated, who didn’t know what the crown of Queen of Love and Beauty entailed: wife, betrothed, intended, mother or sister if it couldn’t be helped, and last but not least mistress. _Lover_. _Whore._

“Intentions be damned, it doesn’t matter anymore, and frankly I don’t care for your excuses, for everyone has come to their own conclusions already!”

“All I wanted was to honour you, Ser Laughing Tree. I didn’t see any other possibility to do so.” His expression was sincere, and then he chuckled. “’A gallant fool with a penchant for dramatics’, that was what Elia called me when I told her.”

Lyanna laughed, she couldn’t help it for she didn’t want to disgrace herself any more bursting into tears and all, she laughed out loud until her sides hurt. “She’s right, you know.”

“I do. She is. And I’m sorry.” The prince rubbed his face in the palm of his hands and pulled his hair back in an irritated gesture. “Forgive me?”

Lyanna shook her head defiantly. Were she a better lady, well-educated and finely-honed to court protocol, she might have curtsied right then and there, demurely mumbling some shallow phrase or another, no matter her own thoughts and feelings. She wasn’t though, highborn or not she was but a northern horse-girl and winter had come for her. “Tell me the truth,” she demanded, not bothering to add _Your Grace_ even though she knew she should’ve. “The whole truth and nothing but the truth and I might find it in my heart to forgive you. And,” she added belligerently, motioning towards the weirwood tree, its white bark gleaming in the twilight, “I’ll have you know that my gods, the Old Gods as your people call them, stand witness to whatever it is you have to say.”

She ducked her head as soon as the words left her mouth, suddenly fearing the wrath of the gods that would befall disrespectful little girls, Old Nan had thrummed it into her very being ever since she was old enough to hear. The strike of lightning didn’t come, though, but she couldn’t feel relieved either. She watched him closely, listening intently to every word he said, analysing every twitch around his haunting eyes and every awkward fidget of his hands. She listened, trying to accept what she couldn’t understand, and then she laughed out loud.

“Say no more!” she gasped, “With all due respect, Your Grace, but ...”

“I’m an idiot,” the prince acknowledged, covering his eyes with his hand in despair, “As I said, I would’ve knighted you were you a man. I didn’t think any further. I didn't consider the _implications_.”

“I believe you,” she breathed, finally, before daring to look up and meet his gaze for the first time, “and I’m relieved, I truly am. But in the end it’s not my opinion that matters.”

“I’ll make sure to talk to my cousin,” the prince assured with a nod that could as well be a royal pardon and a glint to his eyes that was most certainly not, “He would be an even greater fool than I am if he cast you aside ...”

Lyanna sighed, bowing her head in resignation, not daring to speak her mind.

“What is it, Lady Lyanna? It’s a fine match, yet you don’t seem all too pleased?” When she frowned she saw something like recognition on the prince’s face. “Would you care for some advice from someone who has been in your shoes?”

“So you were serious before.” Lyanna was startled. “Silly me. I shouldn’t have assumed …”

“People see what they want to see, my lady, and that’s a great romance between two handsome young royals, something straight from a song. But I’m a prince of the realm, I’m not exactly free to love and my life is not a song.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair again. “I’m sorry if that disillusions you.”

“It … I don’t know. I’m … sorry.” She paused her stuttering, unsure of what to say. Even if she had payed better attention to her septa’s teachings about court protocol and interaction with the royal family, she was certain that a situation as bizarre as this wouldn’t have been covered. She shifted uncomfortably, thinking of an appropriate response. _At least your princess isn’t a raging drunk_ _ard_ _with bad breath_ _and worse manners …_ _and at least one bastard hidden away somewhere._ No, she couldn’t possibly. “I must admit it’s good to know you’re not alone, though,” she said instead.

“The heart cannot be forced, so don’t try too hard to fall in love. That would be my advice. Making friends with your spouse is easier. You’ll have a child soon enough, that at least gives you something to share, something to talk about. It was the case for us with Rhaenys.”

Lyanna shrugged. “I think I’d very much prefer to marry someone whose company and conversation I enjoyed to begin with.”

When the prince straightened his shoulders the melancholy half-smile was gone. “I shall take my leave then, my lady. For all that I’m glad that we spoke I wouldn’t wish to tarnish your reputation any more than I already have.” He swiftly took her hand in his, dipping his head to kiss it, but then he paused half-way, as if he’d remembered something important all of a sudden. “One more thing, my lady, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Yes, Your Grace?” Perplexed, Lyanna cocked her head and withdrew her hand.

“I’m not all that familiar with your customs, never having visited the North myself, so you’ll excuse my ignorance on that matter. But every book I ever read on the subject neglected to mention that this one kingdom of the realm has woman warriors as fierce as they are fair.”

“That’s because we don’t … _Your Grace_!” Lyanna laughed, unsure whether he was jesting or truly ignorant, “Northern women are more robust than their southron counterparts, if you don’t mind me saying, but … _warriors_? No. Only on Bear Island.”

“So how come you’re skilled enough with a lance to unseat not one but three lords and anointed knights at that?”

“I’d rather not say, Your Grace.” His question unsettled her and she bit her lip.

“Oh, come on … I told you the truth, didn’t I? Now will you return the favour?”

“Jousting is three-quarters horsemanship after all, and every Northern lady can ride. Most learn before they’re even able to walk. I did.” The nonchalant laugh she had attempted stuck in her throat.

“But still.” His chuckle unnerved her more than she could say. “Ser Barristan Selmy had me stick poles into pillows for practice. He neglected to inform me that you have to let go of the lance at some point, probably because I was so terrible at it. So when I finally managed to hit my first target, my horse galloped on and left me dangling ...”

Lyanna stared at him for a moment too long, and then she burst out laughing. “You didn’t?”

“I did,” he said, “I gave poor Ser Barristan a heart attack, I’m afraid, when my royal arse was defeated by the sheer force of gravity.”

She laughed until her sides hurt; luckily enough the prince didn’t seem offended. Quite on the contrary, he was obviously struggling to retain his composure until he gave up. “I’m certain that you had to endure similar misadventures at the hands of your brothers,” he said, gasping for air, “or maybe you didn’t, because you’re a perfect lady after all.”

Was he truly teasing her? Lyanna couldn’t believe what was happening, one more unforeseen turn of events that left her dumbfounded. “My brother – Benjen, the youngest – he managed to unseat me once,” she blurted out, still laughing, “I was wearing an ill-fitting helm I’d poached from one of the squires, it came off before I did and left me with a black eye and a mighty bruise on my cheek. When Father asked I blamed the spinning wheel, a spool of yarn ripping loose with a bounce and hitting me in the face when I tried to catch it.”

“He believed you?”

“He chose to see what he wanted to see, I guess.” She shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“I guess so,” he said, “That’s why they don’t see you behind the mystery knight’s armour tilting at the lists, and they don’t see me behind the cloak and the harp on the Hook or the Street of Scenes.”

“Beg pardon?” Lyanna furrowed her brow.

“I assume you dreamt of being a knight when you grew up?” he asked, and then he cocked his head, “Don’t play coy, my lady Lyanna, we’re long past that.”

“I wanted to join the Night’s Watch, actually, just like Brave Danny Flint,” she admitted, blushing only a little, “preferrably without the rape and murder part, but still. No marriage and lots of Wildlings to fight, that sounded like a dream. Still does.”

“I never dreamt of being a knight, though I probably should have. I dreamt of being a poet, a bard travelling the realm with his harp, making people so happy they would dance and so sad they would cry.” She bit her lip, mortified. Never would she ever admit that his sad song at the grand feast had moved her to tears. He didn’t seem to notice, though. “Well, obviously I couldn’t, being the crown prince and all. But sometimes I’ll sneak out of the Red Keep and take to the streets in plain clothes with only my harp and one guard or two for company, and then I’ll sing and nobody is any the wiser.”

She couldn’t help but stare at him, intrigued. The prince was an unconventional one, that much she had learned about him during the short time of their acquaintance, but she hadn’t taken him for an outright rebel.

“You must make a lot of coin on nights like these,” she said cheekily, “I’ve never been to the capital so I wouldn’t know about the minstrels there, but you’re good.”

“Good enough to support the orphanages of Flea Bottom or a hungry fellow minstrel,” he admitted with a shy smile, “Only once did I keep the coin for myself … it was Arthur’s nameday – Ser Arthur Dayne, my friend and kingsguard – so I decided to take him and Ser Barristan to a tavern that night. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Can’t say that I remember much after that, though.”

“Oh Rhaegar ...” She clasped her hands over her mouth in shock, stifling the laughter that had started to build up in her belly, only to be replaced with a sense of dread. “I apologise for speaking out of turn, Your Grace.”

“What?” The prince stopped to look at her with a puzzled expression. “Whatever’s the matter, my lady?”

This must be a test, Lyanna thought. How could he not have noticed? “I misspoke, Your Grace, I overstepped. A genuine accident. It’s not my place to call you _Rhaegar_ , and I assure you it won’t happen again.” It was only then that she realised the had spoken his name again. _S_ _even hells!_

“You have called me a bloody fool and worse,” he said with a chuckle and a warm glint in his eyes, “I think I might enjoy having you call me by my name instead.”

Lyanna faltered, blushing, dumbly nodding her head. Every time she thought she’d wrapped her head around what was happening everything took a turn towards the more absurd. She wanted to bolt and run as far away as possible; to the Wall, maybe.

“May I call you Lyanna, then?” he inquired cautiously.

“No!” she blurted out, sounding much harsher than she’d intended. She blushed again and lowered her head in embarrassment. “But you could call me Lya,” she quickly added, “Everyone I like well enough does.”

“Lya it is then,” he agreed, “And I’m glad to hear you like me well enough, despite everything.”

Lyanna shrugged noncommittally. It was the truth after all, not delicate courtish politeness. She couldn’t understand why every young lady she knew got all flustered and tongue-tied in the presence of boys, especially highborn ones. She imagined any of her lady friends would’ve fainted before they could say anything in the presence of the prince, but she couldn’t fathom why. Rhaegar was terribly easy to talk to, attentive and witty and sharp as a blade, and most importantly not one to bother with the idle chit-chat and mind-numbing pleasantries Lyanna loathed so much. Talking to him was no different than talking to her brothers, only he was better at listening than Brandon, more animated in his storytelling than Ned, and overall less annoying than Ben. She would gladly sit and talk to him all night.

“I too used to have a nickname,” Rhaegar said wistfully, “Back in the day before I decided I needed to be a knight, before my father deemed my behaviour unbecoming of a prince.”

Lyanna cocked her head. “What is it? … if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I minded you asking,” he said softly, “It’s Reggie. Nowadays, not even my dear mother uses it anymore.”

“Reggie.” Lyanna couldn’t help but smile, studying his face for the first time, catching his sullen indigo gaze. “It suits you. The curious little boy I imagine you used to be. Rhaegar, on the other hand, now that is a name fit for a king.”

“What’s your secret?” he murmured, and for a moment it seemed as if he wanted to hug her. “We barely know each other and yet you understand me so well.”

“Better not get used to it, for tomorrow the tourney ends and everyone leaves.” She had intended to deliver a witty quip, but it wouldn’t come out right. A twinge of regret hit her, she was just starting to enjoy herself after all.

“Back to reality it is,” Rhaegar said, but he didn’t sound all too pleased either.

“Unless you run off with me. Did you not just tell me that you’ve never been up North?”

“I’d love to. Only the king and council wouldn’t be too pleased,” he said with a smirk and “Or my wife, for that matter.”

Lyanna gasped. How could she possibly have forgotten. “Your lady wife! Seven hells … that’s _not_ what I meant.”

“It’s alright, Lya. Don’t worry yourself about that.”

“But I do! Seriously, I feel the need to apologise to her, for all the shame and heartbreak I caused her.” Lyanna rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes, despairing again, and vividly remembering the thrice-damned spectacle at the joust. “She won’t want to face me of course, and I’m not the kind of company a princess keeps, but … If I write to her, would you agree to pass my letter on to her?”

“You shouldn’t have to apologise for my folly.” Rhaegar placed his hand on her shoulder in a soothing motion. “Now pray tell me more about the North. If I’m to run off with you I might as well know what’s waiting for me.”

Up until now they had been strolling through the godswood, side by side while night had fallen. When Rhaegar motioned to a huge and enormously twisted weirwood root at the edge of a clearing, they sat down, quite a bit closer than was appropriate, but then again, none of it was. And with every sentence and every laugh, Lyanna forgot who it was she was talking to, for it felt entirely normal and natural to share secrets and memories, hopes and dreams with a friend. He obviously felt the same, for their conversation was quickly taking a turn for the personal. He was a solitary person, she realised, lonely even in the midst of the commotion that surrounded him at court, turning to the melancholy with nobody to share his thoughts with. She knew the feeling, having to pretend to be something she was not, but at least she had Ben (and if she were entirely honest, Ned and Bran too) at her side. She slowly started to understand where that intense despair in his voice, that unearthly timbre that had unsettled her and moved her to tears, was coming from. It didn’t scare heur, though it should have, it intrigued her, everything about him did for some reason she didn’t quite understand.

For all that she wanted to hug him she hadn’t even realised that she’d touched his knee in what was meant to be a comforting gesture when he placed his palm atop hers. A hot flash jolted through her body, an alien feeling she had never experienced before. Her instinct reaction was to yank her hand away, to bolt and run, but for some reason she squeezed his fingers instead.

Their foreheads touched before their lips did. His nimble fingers threading into her hair he paused for a heartbeat, as if to ask her permission. But that couldn’t be of course, she knew full well what was to come now, she vividly remembered Ethan Glover, her brother’s squire, drooling all over her face in a misguided attempt to shove his tongue down her throat before she could knee him in the groin, and the Baratheon trying to grope her arse while the ale on his breath and the scratch of his beard made her retch. She squeezed his hand again, hoping for it to be over fast. She had just so started to enjoy his company, and now this would be ruined once and for all … what had she done to tempt him, why did it have to be her?

Rhaegar’s lips were cool and soft, his kiss barely more than a soft exhale. She watched his eyes fall shut in bewilderment, unable to move or even breathe, and then it was over. His thumb traced her cheekbone, his intense gaze bored into her with an eager curiosity she couldn’t quite place. That had been … _different_ , not at all what she’d expected, and not entirely unpleasant. She could hear her own heartbeat thrumming in her ears, a hot tension spreading in her chest, and before she could decide what to do and how to feel, Rhaegar had lifted their hands, fingers still intertwined, to his mouth. She’s had her hand kissed many times before, thought nothing of it, but never this way, soft open-mouthed kisses onto every knuckle. She shuddered, and when she realised that it came from pleasure, anticipation even, she shuddered again.

She lifted her other hand, tentatively brushing a stray silver lock that had come out of his braid from his forehead. He seemed to lean into her touch when she touched his ear, and when he looked up she couldn’t help but stare at his lips and when she realised that he was doing the same, something inside her snapped.

There was nothing shy or hesitant about the way she moved towards him, cupping his face in her hand, running her fingers through his untidy tresses, drawing him closer. When their lips touched, she felt a sense of urgency running through her whole body and then Rhaegar’s lips started moving against her mouth and she realised there was a taste to him, wine and heat and something else she couldn’t quite name, and a scent, woodsmoke and musk and foreign spices and virility, and his silver hair was impossibly soft and wispy like spun silk and his skin was smooth to the touch and cool despite the ever-increasing heartbeat running underneath and his fingers were curious and eager and ever so gentle because a harpist’s fingers couldn’t not be and his unearthly eyes were full of fire and ferocity and want and the way he made her gasp when his hand settled on the small of her back and playfully bit on her lip made her want to learn everything about him, want to know more … And then, all of a sudden, she burst out laughing.

“What is it, Lya?” Rhaegar startled from their embrace, an utterly shocked look on his flushed face.

“Oh nothing …” Lyanna laughed on, shaking her head and placing her hands on his chest, as if to find some leverage, “only that I’m the only person in the world – woman or girl, noble or baseborn – who never even bothered to dream about snogging the handsome prince.”

His relief was tangible, his smile wistful when he took her hands and squeezed them. “That’s exactly the charm, you know? You treat me like a person, not like some object to swoon and obsess and quarrel over.”

His admission had her thinking, reconsidering her preconceptions once again. “That sounds an awful lot like being a woman. Only nobody dares to disrespect you, because you’re the prince after all.”

“You have a point there,” he pondered.

“I do. And now,” she announced, voice trembling with anticipation, “I should very much like to kiss you again, if you don’t mind.”

Rhaegar’s laugh reverberated against her lips and with that she understood that there was so much more to kissing than she’d ever assumed. There was the aching tenderness of Rhaegar’s shy first kiss. There was the raw and curious passion of her second. (There was the Baratheon’s inebriated slobbering, but she’d rather forget about that.) And then there was this, a kiss that spoke of easy companionship and shared joy.

They resumed their conversation then, as if nothing had come to pass, the only change being that Lyanna was now nestled into Rhaegar’s side tucked under his arm, her hand absentmindedly caressing his hip every now and then, and him turning to nuzzle his face in her hair while he listened.


	7. Rhaegar III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been looking forward to writing this chapter ever since I first had the idea to this story. In my head and my notes it's labelled as "fools rush in, part two". I sincerely hope you'll like it as much as I do, and even if you don't, please let me know. Your comments and kudos are such a motivation. Thank you so much! :-)

In one swift motion Lyanna rose to her feet. “Walk with me? It is starting to get rather chilly, spring hasn’t yet come after all.”

“Certainly.” It was only now that he noticed her clothing … or rather, the lack thereof. She was still wearing the elegant southron-style silken gown she’d donned for the final ceremony at the tourney, much less well-suited to cold nights than the practical northern garments she preferred, and she had obviously forgotten to take a shawl when she’d stormed out of her brothers’ quarters in distress. Hours had passed since then, so much had been shared while night had fallen, leaving him rather too distracted to be cold. Without pausing to think he unfastened the clasp of his cloak, unceremoniously placing the thick red cloth upon her shoulders. “There you go, my dear. That’s better.”

Lyanna stood frozen, staring at him in utter bewilderment, before she burst out laughing once again. He seemed to have that effect on her, and he couldn't help but wonder if that was a good thing?

“Lya? I … I’m afraid I don’t follow?” Her laughter was nothing like the coquettish giggling and sly sniggering of the ladies at court; it rang through the night like a wolf’s howl and she certainly didn’t bother to politely conceal it behind her palm. It was a sound as unusual as it was endearing. “Pray tell and let me partake in your amusement.”

“Oh, Rhaegar ...” she sighed, still busy wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. “Just take a look at our surroundings. You are a well-read and worldly man, are you not?”

He furrowed his brow. After a thorough look around, blinking into the eerie twilight of a night half-illuminated by a full moon and the fires from the surrounding camp reflecting from the weirwoods’ white bark, he still couldn’t make out anything that seemed remotely funny. Beautiful, yes, the godswood did have a certain exotic charm. Unnerving, too, for his unlikely companion had him questioning his sanity a little more with every moment that passed. Lyanna shook his head at him, incredulous and even a bit exasperated.

“Don’t be dense, my darling. We’re stood in a godswood, right before a heart tree, trying our damnedest to escape a scandal of our own making. And yet there you go, wrapping me in your cloak ...”

Rhaegar gasped audibly when everything fell into place in his mind. He was familiar with Northern custom of course, he _was_ a well-read and worldly man after all, and not for the first time this day he found himself at an utter loss for words, standing back in bewilderment and staring right into the ugly abyss of chaos he’d inadvertently caused. It was spiralling out of control, all of it, and this was the final straw. He hadn’t been able to avert his gaze for the better part of the evening and now he willed himself to blink – once, twice, then a third time – just to make sure she was still there and very, very real. She was plain enough, he noticed not for the first time, she couldn’t compete with the resplendent grace and beauty of one Ashara Dayne or Cersei Lannister or Elia Martell even if she tried. That she didn’t even try was what intrigued him most. She was exuberant and daring and wonderful in her own peculiar way, and so unlike everyone he’d ever known. He’d tried to persuade himself that it was not about love or attraction or base instincts. He’d waxed poetic about honour and bravery and higher motives. He’d been vocal about it, he’d managed to convince everyone who dared to ask and happened to be important enough to merit an answer – Elia, Arthur, Lyanna herself of all people – and he’d nearly convinced himself, repeating the same narrative over and over again. That was before he had kissed her on a whim, and only after he did, after she kissed him back, he knew with a terrifying clarity that there was no going back. A wave of desire rushed through his very core so fervently he had to grit his teeth to withstand and will his body into submission. He wanted to trace the contours of her slight figure with his hands, he wanted to lose himself in her smouldering gaze, he wanted to seize her and lay her down on the thrice-damned cloak, he wanted to take her and give himself to her, he wanted ... most of all he wanted this to be real.

Honestly, it was ridiculous to even think about it. It was carelessness and happenstance, not serendipity, that had inadvertently brought them together in a curious amalgamation of both their customs. The weirwood tree – heart-tree, the Northerners called them, believing them to be representatives of their old gods. The cloak, for all that it was one of the plainest he owned, a simple short riding cloak, not an elaborate wedding cloak that would befit a … his breath caught, his eyes widened, but it was too late, the thought had already been formed in the back of his mind. _A princess. A bride. His wife._ _Lyanna._

“I wish,” he finally whispered, voice hoarse and eyes sadder then ever, “Oh how I wish it were that easy.”

Lyanna raised her hand, gently touching her cold fingertips to his chiseled cheekbone. The brilliant mirth had vanished from her eyes as she regarded him with an expression so tender and understanding it broke his heart right then and there. She took a step closer and pulled him into a tight embrace. Sighing profoundly, he nestled his chin upon her head and wrapped his arms around her slight body. After what seemed like an eternity she pulled away, leaving him oddly bereft. She wouldn’t even look at him as she started mumbling excuses. He caught her arm before she could scurry away.

“Lya,” he said softly, for he could see her distress clearly on her face, “my dear, what is it?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” she gritted out, and it sounded like she wanted to add _Your Grace_ , not _Rhaegar_ , let alone _my darling_ , to her curt non-explanation.

“You’re scared,” he said when he realised that it was only now he was seeing her at her most vulnerable, and with a sigh he added, “To tell you the truth, so am I.”

“But you have nothing to be scared of!” She let out a bitter huff. “You’re a prince after all, you’re free to do as you please and return to your life come morning. It is I who will be facing the consequences, and for all that I don’t care for being a proper lady I’ve already brought enough shame on my house as it is. If the whoremonger of Storm’s End won’t have me, so be it, but being cast out and losing my family, that I couldn’t bear. So if you’ll excuse me ...”

Realisation hit him that she must’ve seen more than one maid disgraced by false promises of marriage and whatnot, left to their own devices with a bastard in their belly or their arms. Hours ago she’d accused him of presenting her with the crown just to claim her as his mistress … nothing could be further from the truth, he thought he’d made that clear; nevertheless, he couldn’t blame her for worrying, in fact, he respected her a little more for it, for it was a testament to her awareness and her intelligence.

“Lya, wait!” he cried, not even bothering to conceal the despair rising in his voice, “I’m the most gossiped-about person in the Seven Kingdoms, am I not? Even if the North doesn’t partake in such folly and you’re not the kind of person to pay attention to the like, you’ve been here for a fortnight so I’m sure you’ve heard your fair share. Now tell me, what do the rumours say about me?”

“Every other lady fancies herself terribly in love with you.” Lyanna cocked her head aside, chewing her lip while she was thinking, and Rhaegar waited anxiously. “But I’ve yet to hear anything untoward about you. Unlike my betrothed or even my dear brother ...”

“Because it has never happened before, not even before I was married,” he interrupted, “not that they hadn’t tried at some point or another, but frankly I’m about as interested in the advances of one Cersei Lannister as you are in Robert Baratheon’s … speaking of which, I assure you that I don’t have a hoard of bastards hidden away somewhere between the capital and Dragonstone. What happened tonight, what happened between us, that wasn’t planned and it’s certainly not a ploy.” Lyanna regarded him, the battle raging inside her clearly visible on her stern features. He gave her a reassuring smile, hoping she would interpret it correctly. “Rest assured I won’t pressure you further, but I’ll have you know that,” he paused for a moment, uncharacteristically scrambling to find the right words, “whatever it was that happened between the two of us, everything we shared earlier, I’ve enjoyed it immensely. I wish we could part as friends at least ...”

“I don’t,” she blurted out.

He was instantly taken aback, regretting every word that he said, and suddenly fearing for his own livelihood. For the first time ever he had dared voice his innermost thoughts and feelings, even those bordering on treason, to a near stranger. _Seven hells, Rhaegar!_ Only then he realised the implications, cursing himself for allowing himself to get carried away. He really should’ve known better, he should not have let his guard down, not under any circumstance, and especially not now and not here. What if she was a spy? Something wicked his sire or one of his lackeys had purposefully sent his way, knowing full well that someone smart and brave and just a little romantic appealed to him more than the most beautiful whores in Westeros. Unconsciously, his hand wandered to his hip where he always carried a dagger concealed under his tunic, while he urgently recalled their conversation, trying hard to remember each and every word he said, everything that could compromise him, everything that could cost him his life if the wrong people learned. He had known that they were doomed the moment his sire had announced that he, too, would attend the tourney. He had known that his plan had failed and he had worked hard to stop what they had set in motion before it could even begin. He had been secretly glad for the stir the mystery knight had caused, thinking it a welcome distraction up to the very moment he’d unmasked her identity, for that was when he started to worry even more, for her safety more than for his own. He could hear Arthur’s voice in his head clear as the morning: ‘And that’s why the likes of me are sworn to celibacy, Rhaegar. We can’t afford to think with our cocks when the well-being of the realm is at stake.’ He’d laughed it away then, being so much younger and more naive, but of course his friend had been right. _Seven hells, Rhaegar!_

“What is it?” she inquired softly, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“My lady?” He had been so immersed in his own darkening thoughts that he’d nearly overheard her. He was apprehensive enough, but he knew full well that he had to play along lest he be uncovered.

“If we are to part as friends you should still call me by my name,” she said, taking a tentative step towards him, “but I won’t object if you wish to continue calling me … whatever it was you were calling me earlier.”

A surge of relief rushed over him. Could it be that his worries were unfounded, that he was just being paranoid? He might not know her as well as he should like, not yet at least, but he didn’t really take her for a cunning actress. Also, he remembered, Northerners were unable or at least discouraged to lie in the face of their gods, and he took her to be somebody who took their beliefs and their culture seriously. If not, he would have to find a way of dealing with it. The fearful openness in her gaze was disarming, though, and it was only then that he realised what it was exactly that she had said. He closed the distance between them with a sense of urgency; he didn’t know he had it in him, he didn’t even remember what he had called her earlier because it had sounded so perfectly normal in his mind, just like hearing _my darling_ from her sounded right. With one swift motion he took her hands in his and pressed his lips upon them, and he waited for her encouraging smile before he went on to embrace her properly. He who had always put duty and devotion first was ready to give in and follow his heart for the first time ever. _And if she’s a spy after all …_ _well, there must be some truth in what they say about keeping friends close and enemies closer._ He hated what the cynicism of court had done to him; willing his paranoia away he finally permitted himself to lose himself in her kiss.

“Seven hells, Rhaegar … What’s happening to us?” she mumbled against his lips when they came up for air. She was way more coherent than he was, he had to give her that.

Opening his eyes he pulled back, gently taking her face in his hands and regarding her fondly before he kissed her forehead. No, he didn’t want to think about treason and treachery any longer, he didn’t want to ruin this. His sire’s intervention might have ruined the plans he’d made for Harrenhal, but he could still have this. At the end of the day, an affair is better than a coup, he thought, but was it really? No, if he were entirely honest to himself, it wasn’t. _I believe we’re falling in love_ , was what he wanted to say, _I believe I finally understand what the songs I’ve been singing are all about._

“You tell me,” was what he said instead, “For I have already lost my mind.”

She threaded her fingers through his hair, his braid had come undone hours ago leaving her to play with the wisps of silver framing his face and his shoulders, and her playful tenderness was driving him crazy beyond words. “This is going to hurt, isn’t it?”

“I daresay it will. Terribly so,” he admitted weakly, “And not just us. Taking a lance to the gut at the joust would’ve been easier, but ...” She kissed him again, pressing her lithe little body against his, rendering him incoherent for longer than he cared to admit. “I only hope it’s worth it, my love.”

“My love?” she stuttered, a red hot flash rising to her cheeks so fast he could feel it under the ministrations of his fingers.

He decided to play coy, for her reaction was terribly endearing. “Yes, my love?”

“Are you sure you want this?” she asked under her breath, “All of this? Me?”

“You … desperately so.” He didn’t even try to suppress his breathless smile. “All of this … maybe not, but it can’t be helped if we want to make it happen. And I’d rather weather the wildfire that is yet to come with you than spend all ages of the world alone.”

“You are such a poet, my darling.” She stretched to kiss the tip of his nose. “I wonder how it came to pass that you never seduced any lady who might be more susceptible to this kind of thing than myself.”

“They simply weren’t as brave as you are.” He paused to readjust the cloak upon her shoulders, then he paused again to admire her, all regal Targaryen red against her cool Northern features and her silvery-blue dress, the pallor of her skin and the ice in her eyes contrasting her dark hair. And then it hit him with all the weight only an age-old prophecy could have.

If he was Fire, fire and blood, then she was Ice, the ice of the winter that was coming, it had been there for thousands of years, spelled out clearly for everyone to see, written in their words and their song and their history. And then again, she was Fire, bold and hot-tempered and unstoppable against all odds, the only one who had ever dared come close to, let alone be able to melt his Ice, the cold and impenetrable shell he’d surrounded himself with. _My darling_ , just two dreadfully banal words uttered with that impossibly charming Northern lilt of her voice was all that it had taken. He wasn’t one to take prophesies easily, but Ice and Fire was all that it would take, and there they were, Fire and Ice.

He stood breathless for a moment too long, staring at her so intensely that she gave him a quizzical look in return. This was what he had been searching for all his life, what he hadn’t been able to find in himself or in Elia. Was this the sign he had been looking for all along, or was it just wishful thinking? This was impossible. It couldn’t _be_! Or could it? He would never know, unless …

“Lyanna,” ha said, softly and ever so seriously, “Do you want to make this happen?”

She gulped. She stuttered. She ducked. “I wouldn’t dare to presume … You’re ...”

He interrupted immediately, knowing full well what she wanted to say. _You’re a prince and I’m just a girl from up North. You’re a married man and a father. You’re not the match my_ _lord_ _father intended for me._ _You’re mad._ “That’s not what I asked. If it were just you and me … if we both were free to choose … would you want to be with me?”

She gulped again. She nodded. She took his hands. “I would. I do.”

He let out a relieved breath. “Truly?”

The smile she gave him illuminated his whole world, and yet he quenched it when he kissed her, long and hard and possessive, running his hands down her torso and her waist, eager to learn more of her body. He reined himself in, as reluctant as he was determined, before he could start kissing her face, her throat, her clavicle. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, though it would be too foolish and too early and too enormous, so instead he started to ruminate, trying to clear his mind enough to start making plans. It was too early to share them, though he should. When he started walking again she threaded her arm through his and rested her head onto his shoulder and once again it felt disturbingly normal.

“When you ascend to the throne, you should seriously consider appointing that deplorable cousin of yours as your Hand,” she said suddenly, albeit laughingly, and he couldn’t tell whether she was being serious.

“Robert Baratheon?” He stood, startled. “Are you quite mad? Whyever should I do that, pray tell?”

“So that you can take his lady wife as your mistress of course,” she said in the condescending tone one generally used when talking to a horse, a child, or a particularly dumb servant, “It would certainly make things easier for us.”

“Lya, I ...” His cheeks were burning hot with embarrassment, “I wouldn’t … I couldn’t dishonour you like that, not ever. As I said before, I’m not that kind of man.”

“So what you’re trying to tell me is that you would name me Queen of Love and Beauty for everyone to see but you’re loath to bed me?”

He slumped down on a boulder by the wayside, shaking his head and hiding his face in his hand. When she sat by his side, placing a soft hand on his shoulder as if to alleviate his distress, a faint trace of humour had returned to her grim smile. He took a deep breath as he faced her, unshed tears burning hot in his eyes.

“I am loath to bed you,” he said slowly, every word hanging heavy in the icy night’s air, and he was anticipating the sharp blow of Lyanna’s fist to his face every moment now. “I am loath to bed you if I cannot wake in your arms. I am loath to have your body if I cannot have your mind, your wit, your laughter, your presence, your everything. I am loath to steal a couple of hours in the still of the night when all I truly desire is to share the rest of my days with you.”

Connect with his face Lyanna’s hands did, but only to pull him into a fiercely passionate kiss that took his breath away once again.

“I couldn’t bear losing you either,” she gasped urgently, “just as much as I can’t bear not having had you at all.”

“I know, my love,” he murmured against her lips, “oh don’t I know.”

With a sad smile and the Targaryen-red cloak still firmly in place on her shoulders she settled into his arms, leaning against his broad chest and resting her head on his shoulder with a desperate sigh. Not for the first time tonight he felt like weeping, but for the first time in his entire life he felt safe enough to let his tears fall freely. She was his fate, after all, she was what prophecy had brought him, to have and to hold. They sat for a long time in companionable silence, cradling each other in their arms, sharing nothing but a few gentle caresses and forlorn sighs, and then they picked up their conversation again. He had dreamt of this when he was a boy, before he’d resorted to a stony mask of sullenness, ever since he’d snuck illicit novels from the library and learned that not every marriage was as bitter and as violent as his parents’. He had dreamt of the day when he’d be married, when he’d finally find this sort of companionship and intimacy he yearned for in his wife, and when Elia had come along, subservient and distant and utterly boring, he found solace in the thought that it was a thing that existed only in song. And then, when he least expected it, he’d found her. Lyanna Stark, the ice to his fire and the fire to his ice. He was destined to have her by his side, yet he was reluctant to dream of the children they were promised – the second head of the dragon, a boy with unruly curly hair like his mother’s and his sullen character and then the third, a girl with his eyes and her spirit, and they would be Aegon and Visenya to the Rhaenys he already had and the power of three would set them all free when the time came … whom was he fooling, _of course_ he dreamt, but there was so much to be done before it could come true.

“Damn it!” she muttered against his shoulder, scrambling to her feet.

“What is it?” he said, alarmed, catching her hand in his.

“Dawn is breaking already! Just look! Can you believe it?” There was a trace of panic in her voice when she motioned to the offending horizon where flecks of blue and silver and red were slowly blending into the black and gold of the long night. “I need to get back, I’m sorry. You know I don’t want to leave you, my darling, but ...”

Her voice was breaking. He clutched her hands tighter, kissing them once more. “I know. Begone, then.”

She stared at him incredulously. “That’s it? _‘Begone, then’?_ That’s all you have to say?”

The hurt in her voice was evident and it pained him to hear it. “My love ...”

“You’re right of course, we need to make haste lest we be discovered.” She straightened her shoulders, every word as cold and sharp as the Wall itself. “It was good while it lasted. Rest assured, I shall keep my silence if you keep yours.”

“And I shall never forgive you if ‘farewell my prince’ is the next thing you say!” he cut in, rapidly closing the distance between them and catching her by the arms before it was too late. “I meant every word I said, Lyanna Stark. _My love._ I don’t quite know how, not yet, but I shall endeavour to make it happen. I can only beg you to trust me.”

“You’re the crown prince, you don’t beg,” she said, coolly but quickly losing her resolve.

“You’re a wolf, you don’t trust,” he retorted, and she laughed.

“We’re at an impasse, then.”

He kissed her before she could say any more, and judging from her reaction she didn’t wish for this to be over any more than he did. Her hands were in his hair again, her body pressed flush against his, her mouth devouring his so eagerly as if committing their taste and their feel to memory. With the cold light of morning reason crept upon them, and farewell. She pressed her lips upon his one last time, ever so chastely, an unspoken promise. He didn’t dare ask for her trust again, he _knew_.

“I’ll never marry the Baratheon,” she said and he shuddered. “Not after this night I can’t.”

“You won’t,” he said, desperately hoping that he could keep his promise. But if it was in his prophecy – in _their_ prophecy – then it must be possible. “You’re mine. As I am yours.”

Her hands were shaking so much that the silver-and-ruby clasp on his cloak wouldn’t come undone at first. She cursed under her breath until she finally succeeded, the lines on her youthful face evidence that she hated it as much as he did.

“I wish you could keep it,” he said, carefully folding the rough cloth over his arm, “Carry a piece of me with you, have something to remember me by.”

He closed his eyes, only for a moment, recalling feverishly how splendid she had looked wearing his colours. The image etched itself onto his mind, and if this night would be all they’d ever have, he should treasure it until his dying day.

“It’s but a thing, my darling, not of import when I have something so much more valuable,” she said solemnly, once again raising her hand to caress his cheek, but she didn’t finish the sentence.

He smiled wistfully, breathing a kiss into her calloused palm. “This is not farewell.”

“I feared you’d say that,” Lyanna frowned halfheartedly, “Please don’t do anything foolish. Promise me, Rhaegar.”

“Let’s not get into an argument about what constitutes foolishness and what doesn’t,” he said with a smirk, “Not now at least. When we see each other again we shall have the rest of our lives to debate semantics. And I’ll be happy to, if that’s what your heart desires.”

“Oh shush, you!”

Lyanna rolled her eyes and playfully smacked his forearm before she stole one last determined kiss, burning herself deeply into his soul. Then she strode away into the dawn, not faltering to turn around even once. He stayed right there, unmoving, burying his face into the cloak that would forever be hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three Eyed Weirdo commentary: "And that, Daenerys Stormborn (and so on and so forth, ain't nobody got time for that), is how your oaf of a brother accidentally kinda-sorta married the mother of that chap you're boning who shall henceforth be known as cousin of dragons. Or is it stepdad of dragons? You're more confusing than the Lannisters, you know."


	8. Arthur I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes one of my favourite characters and an introduction to the political subplot. Please let me know what you think! :-)

Arthur always felt half-naked out of armour, but then again beaches usually required one to be half-naked for proper enjoyment. At least that was true for the lush beaches back home on Dornish shores; Dragonstone, though, was a whole different kettle of fish. The cool late-winter wind lapped against the stiff leather flaps of his tunic, the spray freezing his cheeks and chapping his lips. He was throwing rocks at the foaming sea to pass the time, absentmindedly yet totally aware of his surroundings. When the lady he had been waiting for placed the first foot on the gravelly sand of the bay, inadvertently announcing herself with a rapid approach of crunching steps, his shoulders stiffened and he turned.

“Sweetling!” he murmured while they embraced.

“It’s good to be back, isn’t it?” She beamed at him, if only for a moment. “Harrenhal was plenty depressing, and I’m not referring to what’s come to pass.”

He graced her with the fondest of smiles, gallantly offering his arm. “You’re probably the only person in the world who actually likes this place. You, and Rhaegar of course.”

“Some of us have the talent to find beauty in the most unlikely places.” She patted his arm with a sly grin that was met with one of his trademark frowns.

“Let’s not talk about _that_ ,” he scoffed.

“You’re right of course,” she said lightly, “I’ve missed you, you know.”

“All the while you’ve seen me every day.”

“It’s not the same and you know it.”

They continued their stroll in companionable silence until the wind picked up again and the waves crashed against the rocks with such fervour that they drowned every word that was spoken. It was exactly what they had hoped for, exactly why they had chosen the beach as their preferred meeting place long ago. The tumultuous sea echoing from the bay’s steep and ragged cliffs was enough to quench every secret and treasonous utterance.

“What are we going to do?” she asked, a melancholy smile tugging at her lips.

“That depends on your report, Mistress of Whispers,” he replied, as softly as the weather permitted and as clearly as necessary.

She huffed. “Gods, he really insists on that stupid title, doesn’t he?”

“Indeed.” Arthur smiled again. “Only it’s not a mere title. It’s an honour and a well-deserved one at that, sweet sister. If it weren’t for you we’d be ...”

“But a pile of ashes at the Mad King’s feet, I’m well aware.” Her voice didn’t waver once while he, the ever-valiant knight, had to take a big gulp of air in an attempt to swallow his dread. She patted his arm again and he could’ve sworn that he detected a glimmer of mocking amusement in the corner of her eye.

“Who betrayed us?” he pressed on, “It’s been a fortnight already and none of us are sleeping well.”

She shrugged noncommittally. “When both my sources and yours prove unsatisfactory and inconclusive we can only assume that neither the military nor the regulars of court are to blame … unless they’ve suddenly learned to disguise themselves better, which I doubt. Worry not, brother mine, I have a lead, but I’ll need to prove it first, I wouldn’t want to _inconvenience_ him if I’m wrong.”

There was a looming threat to her innocent choice of words, for facing wildfire at his sire’s own hands would certainly be an inconvenience to the man who should be king. Arthur shuddered, but he refused to be afraid. If he were, he wouldn’t be standing in the thick of it with his best friend and his sister and so many other people he cared about. But he couldn’t afford to lose his confidence right now.

“You’re rarely wrong, Shari, don’t sell yourself short.”

“Give me some time.” She sighed and drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders when the wind picked up again. “One thing I do know for certain is that the Stark girl probably saved our life.”

“What?” He faltered, unsure whether he’d understood correctly. “How so?”

“She was a good enough distraction, both with the mystery knight business and the stunt Rhaegar pulled at the joust. Enough to explain away his erratic behaviour. The difference between a lovestruck fool and a traitor is only a hair’s breadth after all.”

“Seven hells! Was this premeditated?” Arthur cried out incredulously, and he found himself terribly relieved when she shook her head. “For all that I’m grateful he didn’t end up in wildfire along with the rest of us, it’s not without consequences. He did slight Elia and the Dornish are none too pleased.”

“That’s the euphemism of the century, brother mine.” She gave a humourless laugh when she caught the sheepish expression in his face. “You know Oberyn so much better than I'll ever do, you know full well what I mean. I was with him when it happened, and let me tell you, if _none too pleased_ was all that he was I wouldn’t lose sleep.”

“Thank the gods the rest of the family are less impulsive. Still, I’m not sure if I can trust Lewyn right now. He did stay behind in the capital after all.”

“Because he was ordered to. He’ll see reason in time, as soon as Doran does.”

“But will he? Elia ...”

He flinched, vividly remembering Ser Barristan’s harsh reprimand that one time he’d dared speak up for the Queen when the king had unleashed one of his particularly wicked tempers on her: His duty was to observe astutely, but to serve, not to judge, and that as a kingsguard he wasn’t entitled to an opinion. Being a young and eager knight he had been left disillusioned by the harsh reality, but considering his vows were for life and breaking the oath would lead to wildfire he had, albeit reluctantly, committed himself to putting his feelings and his core values aside, assuaging his guilt by tiny acts of kindness. But so much had changed over the course of the winter, so much had changed since the day the prince had broken down before opening up, and then _everything_ had changed. They had always been close, peers despite the hierarchy, but it was only then that they had become brothers. Together, they had summoned up the strength to reclaim their sense of justice and make things right. They had started making plans, quietly and ever so carefully, never knowing whether they’d succeed or burn, and then … He hadn’t seen it coming. He should have, though, for expecting the unexpected was an integral part of his duty.

“Elia will be alright, Arthur. Trust me.”

He scoffed. It still rankled him that Rhaegar had chosen to shame Elia so publicly. Not only for Elia’s sake, but for everyone’s. Not having had the chance to have an open conversation with the prince, he could only assume what had driven him, and the conclusions he’d come to weren’t exactly positive. The ensuing spectacle had jeopardised everything, or so he thought, and now his sister’s words made him reconsider. He paused for a moment, thinking about what Raegar had said upon learning that the king would join them, just before departing to Harrenhal. _The personal is always political and vice versa._

“Nevertheless. She deserves better,” he grunted unwillingly.

“I’m her lady in waiting and her closest confidante. Last I know she’s on the verge of forgiving him already. She’s more resilient than you’d think, and being aware that their marriage is a political alliance first and foremost she’s willing to see past his transgressions.”

They sighed in unison. Arthur had grown up with Elia when he fostered in Sunspear with the Martells, and later Ashara had been appointed to the princess’s service, quickly rising through the ranks being the only fellow Dornishwoman in her gaggle of handmaidens and companions. Elia was so much more than a pawn in the game of thrones they played, she was their friend first and foremost.

“Poor dear. I wish he’d talk to her instead of fancying himself in love with the Stark girl. He doesn’t even see what he has in her … She still doesn’t know anything, does she?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“You need to tell her if he doesn't.”

“It's not my place!” She yanked her hand away from him, anger clouding her eyes. “I don't care that he's who he is, you of all people should know that. This isn't about propriety or duty or whatnot, it's about safety. I have to do what I have to do and I can't have either of them mistrust me.”

They stood in thoughtful silence for a long time, watching a pair of seagulls launching themselves into the wind and fiercely attacking the frothy surf. They were screeching in frustration, as seagulls were wont to do. _Would that we were seagulls ..._

“If the Martell alliance can’t be repaired ...”

“No, Shari!” Arthur interrupted almost violently. “I know what you’re going to suggest, but that’s simply not an option. Even if our dear brother pledged all our men and all of the High Hermitage Daynes’ too … it wouldn’t be enough, and we’ll have a Dornish civil war on our hands on top of that. History repeating itself, the stony opposing the salty, I won’t have that.”

She held up her hand to still him, and the calm expression on her face scared him. “Hear me out, dear brother. There is another option. The North.”

“The Stark girl? Seven hells, you can’t be serious!”

“Not the Stark _girl_.” She paused for a moment too long, biting her lip. “Don’t be mad, promise me Arthur?”

He stared at her aghast. “So it’s true, then. I didn’t dare ask.”

“It’s true, and it’s not what you think.”

“What I _think_ is ... you’re playing with fire, sweet sister. You know I’d never oppose your personal choices, though I do question your taste in men sometimes … but this is not _personal_ , not anymore. Seriously, Ashara.” He shook his head, hating the fact that he had to assume the role of stern and patronising elder brother. “You of all people should know how dangerous it is associating with the Stark boy while Rhaegar gets himself in trouble with his sister!”

“I realise that, I do.” The edge in her voice was as sharp as Dawn. “I’m not an idiot, we wouldn’t stand here if I were. But as I said, it wasn’t premeditated, none of it.” She straightened her shoulders and adjusted her cloak with a bitter smile before she gingerly stepped up the steep stairs leading back to the castle. “We’re running quite late. Let me tell you about my intended on the way up. He’s the second son of a great house, not all too unrealistic a prospect for the first daughter of a lesser noble house … and one with a questionable reputation at that, let’s be honest. Did you know that he fostered with at the Eyrie Robert Baratheon and his elder brother is to be wed to Catelyn Tully of Riverrun within the year? Oh, and he has the most stunning eyes, blue and grey like the sea on a clear summer’s day.”

“Ashara!”

Going after her, Arthur laughed out loud for the first time in what seemed like ages. He had known about his sister’s cunning for the longest time, but it was only now that he understood. Climbing the steep and slippery steps he took the time to listen to her. For all that she claimed to be after a political alliance to further their cause she seemed terribly taken with the Northern lordling, and he couldn’t possibly hold it against her. He quite enjoyed watching the transformation in Lady Ashara Dayne, from the future king’s unofficial yet ever so sly and cunning Mistress of Whispers to the free-spirited and kind-hearted sister he loved so very dearly. She had been right, of course, it _was_ good to be home. As an anointed knight of the Kingsguard he went wherever duty may take him, not daring to form a bond with any one place, always prepared to leave on a moment’s notice. Dragonstone might never be his home the way Starfall was, but it was familiar enough. He realised that he would miss it, the resplendent blackness of the stone and the rush of tides and tempests and the quiet conversations before a blazing hearth in the library and the privacy even in the grand hall, if or when they ever left for King’s Landing for good. He paused for a moment, just to look out at the stormy sea that contradicted the maesters’ claims of winter’s end.

“Oh, there you are,” a voice greeted the Dayne siblings when they were only a couple of steps short of reaching the uppermost level that led into the castle’s courtyard, “I was considering to send out a search party.”

“Your Grace.” Arthur stiffened dutifully.

“Come on, _Ser_ Arthur, we’re home at last. No need for such formality.” A conspirational twinkle apperared in the prince’s eyes before he added, “I trust you enjoyed your stroll on the beach? It is a beautiful spring day after all.”

“Indeed we did,” Ashara said with a bright smile before her brother could say something entirely inappropriate.

“Good. You still have time to change, but you might want to hurry. The princess and I wish to sup with both of you tonight, if only to celebrate our safe return.”

There was a twinge of sadness in his voice and in his choice of words, one that only Arthur and Ashara could place correctly – or so they hoped. If everything had gone according to plan they wouldn’t be on Dragonstone but in the Red Keep, raising their glasses to King Rhaegar, First of His Name, and his Queen Elia, long may they reign.

“I wasn’t aware that you and the princess were on speaking terms again?” Arthur furrowed his brows, painfully aware that he was speaking out of turn, but it couldn’t be helped.

“We have reached an understanding of sorts,” Rhaegar admitted quietly.

“I’ll go see to the princess,” Ashara said hurriedly and vanished in a flutter of cloak and wind-kissed raven hair.

“Rhaegar?” Arthur said plainly when as soon as his sister was out of earshot. “Are you alright?”

“We are, for now.” Rhaegar shrugged noncommittaly.

“Don’t refer to yourself as _we_ if you won’t abide me calling you _Your Grace_ ,” Arthur retorted with a good-natured chuckle. “I won’t have it.”

“I meant Elia. My marriage, for what it’s worth.”

“I know that, and I’m glad. What about you?”

“I don’t know.” Rhaegar turned away, resting his hands on the wall while he sullenly gazed out at the sea.

Arthur straightened his shoulders once again, moving next to his friend. “You know what’s at stake. Brooding is your prerogative, of course, but ...”

“We’re all doomed if I do, is that what you’re trying to tell me?” Rhaegar laughed out, coldly and humourlessly.

“What I’m saying is ...” Arthur sighed deeply. “Talk to me and we’ll figure something out. We’re in this together. All of us, and that includes Elia.”


	9. Ned II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. I know that I said I would adhere to canon, and I know that Brandon went to Riverrun and Ned to the Vale and Benjen to the North after the tourney at Harrenhal and Lyanna’s whereabouts are unknown as of now. But this was way too tempting: the family back at Winterfell one last time. Forgive me, I needed all the siblings together for that scene, and I’ll make sure to explain it away when the time comes. Magic Westeros Express Travel if need be, please suspend your disbelief and enjoy ... ;-)

“A raven has come for you, Lyanna,” the Lord of Winterfell said over luncheon, handing a small scroll over to his only daughter.

“Well, well,” Brandon teased good-naturedly, setting his spoon aside, “A raven for Lya and a scroll bearing a mystery sigil, nary a moon’s turn since we left the South behind. Seems like things are getting serious for our little she-wolf.”

Lya blushed furiously, her sinewy hands clutching the scroll so tight it crumpled, inadvertently breaking the seal in the process. She tensed all over, looking ready to pounce at anyone who dared mock her. Luckily for the integrity of the manhoods of all three Stark lordlings it was Father who spoke first.

“Will you not let us know if there is any good news to share, my dear?”

Lya gritted her teeth, mumbling something unintelligible about privacy and whatnot; Ned couldn’t make out her exact words. Her face was burning like wildfire and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. He leaned over and gave her an encouraging little nudge. Back at Harrenhal she had been the only one not to tease him for his inherent shyness and his awkward attempts at courting, and he wished he’d told her everything already as much as he hoped that she’d since overcome her reluctance. Her fingers trembled as she tentatively started to unravel the scroll, trying and failing to be as secretive as possible. In silent support of his sister Ned glared at both Ben, who didn’t know any better, and Brandon, who should, sitting on the opposite side of the table tauntingly rolling their eyes and making kissy faces at her. Then he glanced at the slip of parchment in Lya’s hands, noticing the initial _R._ flourishing prominently in the lower right-hand part of the short note.

“I might become jealous,” he stated, sounding very pleased, “Robert never bothers to send me a raven and I’m his foster brother after all! And he certainly couldn’t ever be arsed to pay attention to his penmanship either.“

Lya defiantly stuck her tongue out at her brother and clutched the scroll closer to her bosom.

“You’ll make an honest man of him yet, sweet sister, just you wait!” Ned proclaimed with utter conviction ringing in his voice.

He wasn’t blind to all his faults and shortcomings of course, for Robert had never been modest about his innumerable exploits; he had worried for his sister’s sake when he learned about sweet Mya only a couple of days after his lord father and his foster father had tentatively started brokering a betrothal; but ever since they arrived at the Eyrie when Ned was eight and Robert was nine the two lordlings had been brothers in all but name. Jon Arryn had taken him aside, then, informing him matter-of-factly that it was a bachelor’s prerogative to ‘sow his wild oats’ as he had called it, and that he would calm down in time, especially with a wife as wild and willful as Lya. He couldn’t quite believe it, then, but judging from Robert’s reaction the old man might have been right after all. Robert was so taken with Lya it bordered on infatuation, even before he’d met her, and Ned had believed him wholeheartedly when he’d sworn that he would change and be a good husband to his beloved little sister. Ned had been ever so glad, and grateful, too. The next time he returned to Winterfell would be for Lya’s wedding. Father would escort Lya before the heart tree as was his prerogative, and Ned would be more than proud to stand up with Robert, for they would finally be bound by blood. Bran and the Tully girl would have a babe with fire in its hair by then; Ned was looking forward to having nieces and nephews to dote on, spoiling the girls rotten and teaching the boys more mischief than their parents could handle. He doubted that the babe would have learned to speak by then, but he was determined to bring the lady it would call ‘aunt’ one day, to show her his home and introduce her to his family. He’d broach the topic with Father as soon as Brandon was wed, but he was certain that there wouldn’t be any objections. Father had shown ambition by joining their family to not one but three great houses of the South, by marriage and fostering, for all that he tried to make it seem like a coincidence Ned couldn’t quite believe it. His intended might not be as highborn as a Tully or a Baratheon, but her family’s bloodline was as ancient as the Stark’s and they were held in high regard not only by the Princes of Dorne but the Crown itself. Her reputation may be as questionable as Robert’s, but Ned couldn’t bring himself to care. There was nothing his lord father could do short of betrothing him to Cersei Lannister, but he knew enough about Tywin Lannister’s scheming from listening in on Jon Arryn’s incessant ramblings to know that would never happen. he’d already started to play that particular conversation in his head when he was interrupted. When he looked up, Lya was still fumbling and their brothers were still grimacing.

“You may be excused, my dear,” Father said, a hint of gentle amusement evident in the deep lines around his eyes, “Maester Luwin has informed me that the raven is still waiting for your response in the rookery.”

“Thank you, Father,” Lya murmured distractedly, scuttling up from the table in a hurry.

And then, all of a sudden, everything happened at once. Having been away from Winterfell for such a long time, eager to adjust to the ways of a different house and culture, Ned hat nearly forgotten what a rambunctious bunch his family could be at times. Ben had snuck up behind Lya and managed to snatch the scroll from her fingers, clever little pest that he was. He was out of her reach before she could lash out and hit him. Being in love definitely made her slow, and she yelled obscenities before she took off running after him. The youngest Stark was out of breath, still trying to escape his sister’s pursuit while he unrolled the note and read out loud, voice panting and ever so exaggerated.

“I cherish the memory of your laughter as much as I cherish every moment spent in your company.” He paused to pull a disgusted grimace, “Ugh! Who even talks like _that_?”

“Your future good-brother, silly!” Brandon laughed. “Didn’t know he had it in him. I liked him better when he was well in his cups, not going all mushy over Lya.”

Ned winced, for something along these lines was exactly what he had wanted to write to the lady who had managed to capture his attention … and his heart, _who are you even trying to fool, Eddard,_ _she has your heart in her hands_ … but the quill had stilled and the words hadn’t come out right every time he’d attempted to do so. He was left with nasty blotches of ink, guilty about spoiling so much good parchment and feeling like a silly little boy, secretly wishing he were more tenacious, more like Robert or Brandon, who had no qualms about wooing every other lady who happened to cross their way. A surge of relief overcame him when he realised that putting what he felt into writing would have made a fool out of him. He had thought that writing her would be a good idea, given that he’d been to tongue-tied to voice his emotions and his intentions when they parted ways, hoping that a searing kiss would be enough after all that they’d shared, but Brandon’s laughter made him reconsider. Having his lady mock him was a thought he couldn’t quite bear, and having made the acquaintance of her brother … _Seven Hells, Ned, what were you even thinking!?_

“Lya, my darling Lya, I have no words,” Ben continued with a booming voice mimicking the stag’s bravado. He’d jumped on a chair to get the scroll out of his irate sister’s reach, succumbing to a snigger right then and there, “blah blah blah how much I miss you, yuck and drivel, don’t deserve you, blah blah blah.”

“Lyanna! Benjen! Stop it right now!” Father bellowed, smashing his fist onto the table and making the stew splash in its wake, but to no avail.

Lyanna pounced; Ben let out a low wolf-whistle. “I yearn for the day when I can finally hold you in my arms again, for then I shall certainly be the happiest fool in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. Yours always, R.”

By the time Lya had managed to pry the scroll from her little brother’s grip, screaming bloody murder with tears of rage in her eyes, Ned felt surprisingly calm. Despite Robert’s questionable reputation, despite Lya’s cool condescension towards her betrothed, despite the scandal the blasted dragon prince had brought over their house, despite having only limited first-hand experience in matters of the heart himself, it was blatantly obvious that his sweet sister and his best friend genuinely harboured feelings for each other. Robert was a proud and stubborn man, and in that he was not unlike Lya; they might be able to tame each other yet. Ned would be certain to press Robert for details as soon as he returned to the Vale, for getting anything out of Lya was nigh on impossible after the spectacle the pup had put on. The Starks had made a good choice, for they would have a not only a prosperous but also a happy future together, of that much he was sure. He could only hope to be as fortunate himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three Eyed Weirdo Bran commentary: “You know nothing, Jon Snow’s uncle.”


	10. Epilogue | Sneak Preview

 

_My love, I am utterly in awe of you … r cunning way of making correspondence possible. May all the plans we have yet to make work as smoothly as this one. I too cherish the memory of that night; rest assured it will have been the first of many more to come. Hope, my darling, I know you have it in you, and I’ll make sure to have enough courage for both of us._

– _L._

 

Rhaegar’s fingers meticulously traced every line of her messy handwriting. He closed his eyes before he kissed the piece of parchment, committing himself to the memory of her scent, her lips, her everything. He was an extraordinarily lucky man.

“Arthur,” he said out loud, and he didn’t even have to turn around to know that his best friend’s shoulders straightened immediately, “It is time. Please call for your sister. I need to talk to her before talking to Elia.”

 

 

 

**THE PRINCESS PROMISED**

_**part two of this series, covering the events between Harrenhal and the Tower of Joy** _

_**~ coming soon ~** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and kudosing and commenting - hearing from you always makes my day, and it makes me write faster. I'm looking forward to seeing all of you again when the story continues. <3


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